Tributes of the Sun
by 13ASB
Summary: Darkness falls over Panem in the sequel to "Empire of Bones" and the third novel of the "From Dust" series. In District 10, Samantha Parker tries to move on after her failure as a mentor in the 99th Games - yet her wishes for peace cannot escape the conflict within a fracturing Capitol on the verge of exploding in violence.
1. Past and Future

_**Author's Note: Welcome to a future of Panem where Katniss and Peeta never made it home to District 12 alive. In the years since, the Capitol has evolved from a bloated, isolated autocracy into a powerful, corrupt, and calculating serpent. Now, following the buildup of tension between its two most prestigious citizens – the President, Octavian, and the Head Gamesmaker, Phaeston Rex (who was summarily arrested after the conclusion of the 99**__**th**__** Hunger Games,) the Capitol slowly is becoming a victim of its own ambition.**_

_**This story is the sequel to "Empire of Bones" and the third installment of a six-part series that began with "From Dust to Dust," in which the young yet determined Samantha Parker of District 10 took home an unlikely victory in the 98**__**th**__** Hunger Games. Now having failed in her first year as a mentor – sacrificing her own best friend's life in her loss – Sam must confront a Capitol and nation plagued by undercurrents of strife and deception; in the machinations that follow, she will find that the consequences of victory are never left behind.**_

_**The Hunger Games, Panem, Thresh, Finnick, Cecelia, Haymitch, et al all belong to Suzanne Collins. Rated T for violence and some mature themes, although the entrance to this chapter is very bloody/violent. Just letting you know now…**_

* * *

**2,000 Years Before The Present**

**Tenochtitlan, Mexico – Capitol of the Aztec Empire**

Ahuizotl did not care about one hundred thousand chanting, dancing individuals below the great temple of his empire's capitol city. He cared about twenty-four of them, and those twenty-four only.

_The ones to feed our Gods…_

They had been pre-selected beforehand; twelve couples partnered for less than a year to be now sacrificed in the name of the Aztec sun god during the greatest festival of the year. It was no less than a spectacular tribute for the greatest of all deities; one that would keep Quetzalcoatl strong enough to keep the world alive and turning against the great threats of the cosmos. Ahuizotl was his emissary on Earth – a God himself, the personification of greater beings to the lesser masses below.

The Aztec _Hueyi Tlatoani _had a short stature, but his arrogant attire atop the great temple in Tenochtitlan expressed his supreme rulership and status. A great headdress of brilliant feathers and carved red wood sat atop his painted head, all overlooking a nearly-naked body adorned in enough shells, jewels, and colorful paint to put any display in nature to shame. He raised his thick hands to the burning yellow sun, reaching out to embrace the warm rays of the morning as his people below shouted for more, screaming in a great, winding throng for the blessings of their emperor and God on Earth.

He would give them what they wanted…_life_.

_Tributes…_

The twenty-four offerings who stood atop the pyramid with Ahuizotl and his priests were a shambling bunch, despite their coveted status as sacrifices to the sun. They were Zapotec – less than human in the eyes of Ahuizotl. Their deaths meant nothing – yet their deaths meant everything. The extinguishing of their souls was nothing more than the snuffing of meaningless lives; yet to the God-Emperor and his kingdom, it was the continuation of a means of control and cycle of religious zealotry that had existed seemingly for time immemorial.

Ahuizotl held his palms out flat, silencing the crowd in one swoosh. He turned his flat, barren, brown eyes towards the sun, asking for blessing as the first prisoner was moved up. He was a weak specimen; scum, really. The thin man quivered as he was laid out on the sacrificial alter stone, his hands and legs held down by four priests who looked to Ahuizotl with adoring gazes. The God-Emperor placed his hands on a ceremonial blade – a gleaming obsidian weapon of brilliance, curved and lethal in so many elegant ways. He looked down upon the blue-painted body of the trembling tribute with some envy – _today, you will further all our lives_. _You are more than just the insect body of a tribute._

But the sun did not demand souls – it demanded _blood_.

The God-Emperor raised the blade above his head and brought it down – the deed be done!

_Thump!_ The Zapotec tribute's eyes bulged in shock and agony as the blade worked its way under his rib cage, snapping aside bone and sinew as Ahuizotl searched for the one organ that mattered. _Yes, there it is!_ With a fierce drive of his hand and a ripping motion back, the God-Emperor withdrew his blade – now holding aloft a beating, bleeding heart. _The sun be nourished!_

Below the great pyramid, the throngs of Aztecs who looked on went berserk. Dancing and shouting coursed through the mob of onlookers like a great tidal wave, filling the crowd with animation and life. The blood of the dead tribute gave them much more than entertainment and fervor; it gave them _conviction_, knowledge and faith that their God-Emperor was the deity he claimed to be. High atop the Aztec citadel and holding the heart-topped knife aloft, Ahuizotl stood greater than any mere mortal.

_Thump! Thump! Thump!_ Twenty-three other tributes died one by one, sacrificed for the good of the sun and the screaming hysterics of a citizenry wildly lost in passionate ardor. Ahuizotl let some of their energy flow through him; how could he _not_ be a God? His subjects loved him, _worshipped_ him – he was their greatest hope and truest salvation on the green planet. Standing atop the deaths of twenty-four meaningless tributes, Ahuizotl had once more established himself as the unquestionable, unchallenged ruler of his fervent dominion.

Yet he had one more surprise waiting on this day – one more offering left for the sun and his people. There would not be twenty-four, but twenty-_five_ tributes to the sun.

And the last would be the best.

The strange, alien female was pulled forward towards the alter, her hands unbound and held firmly as she struggled and panicked. _Such a strange creature_, thought Ahuizotl – clearly, Quetzalcoatl had far more wisdom than he in making beasts for this world. The tall alien female had skin as white as limestone with strange, straight, yellow hair. Her face was long and gaunt like the jaguar's, so incompatible with the Aztec world around Tenochtitlan. She had been gifted by a client civilization to the north, apparently found and taken from strange white men – if the word of insects was to be believed. Ahuizotl found it high fantasy himself – surely the sun had created this alien female _specifically_ to be sacrificed.

He looked down into the strange, pleading gray eyes of the alien as the crowd below went wild. They seemed so distant, so foreign…as if they could not comprehend the great duty to be performed. What strange thing had the sun given Ahuizotl? Was this meant to be the personification of a demon, destroyed by his immortal hands?

Perhaps he was not meant to understand such things. _A God rules – and thinks later_.

"¡_Ayúdame – por favor, déjame ir gratis_!" the alien female shouted at Ahuizotl. What devilish tongue was this?

Wasting no time, the God-Emperor raised his obsidian knife and brought it down straight into the screaming alien's sternum.

* * *

**District 10 – Modern Day**

The girl bolted up in her bed, drenched in sweat.

"Just a dream…just a dream, Sammy," she told herself, letting the soft, milky moonlight of the autumn prairie night filter in through her wide glass windows.

Samantha Parker pulled her powder blue fleece blankets around her tighter, trying to block out the darkness that lurked in her bedroom. The expansive house in District 10's Victor's Village had never truly been a home to her; while it offered luxury and spaciousness that few others in the rural district could lay claim to, it only reminded Sam of the past that still haunted her ever too closely. More than anything else, the memories and visages of two bloody games – one that she had succeeded in and one in which she had failed her tribute and best friend, Clara – punished Sam the worst for her newfound notoriety.

Still, _such_ a nightmare! She had woken up only after reliving the terrifying last moments of Clara's life: watching the huge girl from District 2, Nyx, cock her knife-armed hand back and letting the weapon fly through the air. It had sung like a fallen angel in Sam's dream, hanging in flight for far too long. Clara's stunned face stained her memory as the knife slammed into her sternum: it had been the fatal blow that had taken her life and left Sam that much more alone in a world slowly stripping away every ounce of hope she had.

She couldn't sleep anymore; the pain was far too great. It had been months since the end of the 99th Hunger Games and Clara's death, but Sam still felt that knife in her soul every day. She was an emotional creature by nature, but this failure had struck her far greater than any death or trial in her own Hunger Games experience the year before. Perhaps it was the lack of control or the closeness of death, but Sam knew she likely would never forget the stabbing feeling in her heart.

Sam tossed on a violet robe and walked to her bathroom, flicking on a switch that cast soft yellow light about wood paneling and granite counters. She barely recognized the blue-eyed girl who stared back at her from the mirror; a year and a half ago, she had simply been the fifteen year-old daughter of a wealthy (in District 10's terms) rancher, understanding concepts as complex as riding a horse and herding the heads of cattle that made up the district's staple industry. Now the girl in the mirror was a dead woman walking, knowledgeable and well-versed in the art of death and loss. The Hunger Games had ripped away her innocence and childhood, rendering her nothing but a shell of the young spirit she once embraced.

"You up, Sam?" a sleepy male voice droned from a nearby room. Sam's twenty year-old brother, Jake, often stayed at her home: the alternative was either substandard shack-like hovels that made up District 10's public housing or staying in the ranch home of their abusive father, neither a good option.

"Can't sleep," Sam mumbled, wishing she hadn't woken up. Jake carried a protective streak for his wounded younger sister that had only grown fiercer since Clara's death; right now, she didn't want protection. She wanted a gasp of fresh air. "I'm just goin' for a walk."

"Mm. Okay."

Sleepiness won out over Jake, leaving Sam to do as she saw fit. She slipped out of the house barefoot, trotting into the darkened dusty alley of the Village. The air cooled dramatically outdoors with the seasons slipping towards winter; already, the nip of cold elicited exhalations of white vapor from her breaths. Still, she felt no reason to hurry. Sam wanted to see Clara.

The Bowie family, being ranching landowners like Sam's father, had buried their only child on a small family plot afforded to only the well-to-do. The twenty minute walk from the Village to the grave site let Sam observe the tranquility of the night in District 10. She had never taken the time to really see her home for what it was before, but Clara's death – and to a lesser extent, her previous experience as a tribute in the 98th Games – had impressed upon her the need for living in the present and appreciating what was on hand. The future could be taken away all too quickly.

A hairless stray dog sniffed about the dusty Merchant Ward as Sam walked through the town center. It looked up with moonlit eyes as she walked quietly, easily distracted by a rat corpse's fresh meat and uninterested in the pattering footsteps of a teenage girl. A barn owl perched on the dry rafters of a nearby apothecary hooted at Sam, fluttering its wings at her presence. Sam ran a hand through her brown ponytail, keeping her eyes up and alert. The experience of being a tribute had taught her the lesson of caution: even in District 10, one had to be alert for danger. Anything from a mindless drunken beggar to a Peacekeeper having a bad night could spell trouble, although the Peacekeepers had been decisively lax in enforcement for the last ten months.

The green grass of the prairie rewarded Sam's bare feet with relief from the hard dust of the town. She quickly strode across the fields she'd known all her life, cutting through the Ranching Ward and the land of the well-off citizens of District 10. As she came onto the Bowie plot, however, she saw she had company.

Sam topped a small grassy mound to see a hunched-over figure sitting before Clara's stone grave in the moonlight, sitting and doing nothing more. Sam hesitated, pausing as she decided whether to stay or leave. As she began to make up her mind, the figure called to her.

"Don't go."

_Cal_. Sam had only known Clara's cousin for six months – introduced by the late girl in the spring, months before the Reaping. The guarded boy had quickly become one of Sam's friends after she'd returned from the Capitol with both in mourning. While Sam thought from time to time that Cal thought of her as more than a friend, she had her heart set elsewhere. Clay Lamar, her only remaining friend from her life before the Hunger Games, still held her desire and sometimes-requited affection. Sam wasn't the type to play the games of dating and passion, but what few dreams of the future she still held led to a tomorrow where she and Clay took on the unknown road together.

It was an up-and-down road, too.

Still, Cal had provided her an emotional outlet. Clay's stony response to Clara's death had pushed apart he and Sam for a month before the two got over their feelings, and Cal's comfort with listening to her express her emotions had provided a basin in the meantime.

"I just thought," Sam shrugged, arms askew. "I dunno. Why are you…up?"

"Couldn't stay inside," Cal turned his boyish face towards her, his close-cropped blonde hair illuminated like a field of wheat in the moonlight. "Why're you up?"

Sam stumped for the right words. "I…um, guess I needed to talk to somebody too."

He laughed; a soft, dismissive thing, indicating for her to sit next to him. "We're just two peas in a pod, I guess."

Sam smiled. She preferred it when he was doing the listening, not talking: Cal was abjectly terrible with words. She needed him not as an adviser or soundboard, but as an emotional well.

"Do you think she can see us?" Sam changed the subject quickly, pulling her knees to her chest and nodding towards Clara's grave.

The headstone was born of simple granite, carved quickly and easily by Bowie family ranch hands for extra pay. A simple epitaph rang out from a carved inscription, saying all that needed to be said:

CLARA BOWIE

TRIBUTE, FRIEND, DAUGHTER

NOTHING SO SACRED AS A FIGHTER

NOTHING SO LOYAL AS LOVE

"Why not?" Cal gave her a half-hearted smile, his brown eyes partly obscured by sunken eyelids. "She's in a better place now."

"Is she?" Sam asked, her eyes not leaving the headstone. "I dunno. I guess I've spent too much time thinking about death and not enough about what happens afterwards. Does it even matter?"

Cal shrugged. "I'd like to think so. We spend so much time here fighting over everything from food to entertainment…why wouldn't there be a place that's worth fighting for in the end?"

Sam let the question sink in momentarily before responding. "I don't know if I believe in happy endings like that anymore."

"You can't let this-" Cal nodded towards the headstone. "Take away what you believe in, Sam. Clara believed in something more. She believed in the people around her and she believed in you. If you let her dying pull you apart, only then are you letting her down."

"Just keep your head up," he put an arm around her shoulder. "There's still some good in the world, even if it doesn't look like it now."

She let his arm rest for a second before shrugging it off and shuffling a few inches away from him. Sam didn't want his words, didn't want his embrace; she simply needed someone who could listen and knew Clara just as well as she did. Nothing more.

"I should probably go," Sam motioned awkwardly, getting to her feet and gathering her wits. "It's gonna be morning soon and-"

She froze. Her eyes had caught the slightest bit of movement in the dark of the night; a flicker of shadow where none should have been. She turned towards Cal suddenly, grabbing his arm and pulling the bewildered boy to his feet.

"C'mon, we have to go," she urged him, changing direction quickly. "I'll walk with you back to your house, okay?"

"Sam, what…" he started.

"Just…let's go."

The two had taken nary a step before a dark, gravelly voice called out behind them.

"Am I…_interrupting_ something special Miss Parker? Oh, of course not. Your friend's not Mister Lamar."

She turned around slowly, knowing all too well who had called. Crouched in a gargoyle-like stance beside Clara's grave hunched a huge, well-muscled man wearing denim overalls and a dirty white shirt. He stared up at the two teenagers with blazing black eyes, as dark as coal and wielding a stare that knifed through the night like a scalpel. His bony face wore a misshapen smile that spoke only of ill intentions and foul play.

_Nihlus_.


	2. Unrequited Leads

"Oh God…you."

Sam took an involuntary step back, tripping into Cal and nearly tumbling over. She hadn't seen the enigmatic man, Nihlus, since the Games - when he'd tracked her down deep in the Capitol – and so far, every time he'd made an appearance, he'd wanted something. His first appearance had harkened the spotlight of Capitol politics upon her, occurring just before the Victory Tour. He had next confronted her the prior spring – a meeting that had led to Clara's Reaping by his hand. What was he after now? Why did he come before Clara's grave?

"Yes…me," Nihlus nodded, standing up from his crouch and rearing back to full height. "Me…me, me, me. Although Nihlus will suffice, Miss Parker. I may only _seem_ like God to you."

He looked down at Clara's grave as if studying a historical artifact in depth – stroking his chin with a finger, Nihlus ran his other hand over the top of the tombstone. "You know, I had a thought when I saw you here, Miss Parker. There are no creatures in the animal kingdom that celebrate their dead…that create monuments to them, that enshrine them for history's posterity. Humans are the only outlying exception; thus, I am not sure humans are _animals_ at all. I thought about what _else_ in the world of the living builds cathedrals of the dead…and I found only one answer. It is cancer."

"I believe humans need a reclassification," he mused absentmindedly. "Only a cancer could so destroy the world around them and litter it with their dead."

"In the Capitol…" Sam felt confident enough to confront the man, shielding Cal's astonished look with her body. "Trajan said you're…you're some sort of _project_. What do you want?"

"What do I _want_?" Nihlus looked amused, shining toothlessly towards Sam. "Why, I thought I _explained_ that. I want _order_ Miss Parker…the order that is only achieved through destruction. But I find it interesting you bring the Commander's accusations before me. Did he tell you just how _useful_ he found me?"

"No."

"I thought not. You see...I am a valuable tool to him. In his eyes I may be a utensil, maybe even a man; but I am _so_ much more, Miss Parker. Would you like to know a secret?"

Cal stepped in, muscling his way past Sam and shouldering forward. "I'm sorry, but who are you supposed to be?"

"Simply someone much more informed than _you_, my boy," Nihlus nodded towards him. "Perhaps you should learn the secret too. Does it pain you to see your love for Miss Parker here go so unrequited? Oh, denial in your eyes…you and I both know, don't we? You want that which you cannot have…what a tragedy, is it not?"

"I…" Cal stammered, taken aback by Nihlus's verbal attack and flashing his eyes between him and a stunned-looking Sam. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"See, but I've unsettled your prize here," Nihlus looked pleased, turning his attention back to Sam. "Surprised to learn that, Miss Parker? How unobservant your race is…and how little you know the one you _really_ want. Has young Clayton asked you about your feelings towards the Capitol you so freely embrace?"

Sam felt her heart skipping beats as he progressed. Nihlus was far more informed than she knew – and even after she had understood him to be a great deal more intellectually powerful than any other person she'd known. Cal's stumbling rejection betrayed the truth in Nihlus's words – and Sam already felt an awkward pallor hanging between her and Clara's cousin. Furthermore, the mention of Clay's name brought an entirely new feeling of fear crawling along her skin.

"No, you leave him alone!" Sam pointed a finger at Nihlus, feeling both confused and hurt. "He hasn't done anything to you – and I've done nothing more! You already took Clara from me!"

"On the contrary, he has proven most interesting," Nihlus cocked his head to the side. "And it was not _I_ who took your dead friend, Miss Parker. That was _you_. You, you, you…your failure, your inaction, your all-so-_human_ empathy to the broken Odair family doomed your friend. You see…when we take all points into consideration, it is _you_ who are her killer. It is _you_ who are slowly breaking down every bridge you have. Should we add our esteemed Bowie friend here to the list in light of our revealed interest?"

"That's too far," Cal interrupted again, entirely out of the loop and misunderstanding the war of words between Sam and the strange tall man before them. "Sam did all she could for Clara. I don't know who you are or how you know her, but –"

"Did she? It is interesting that you think that," Nihlus appraised him neutrally. "Did you know she had the power to save Clara's life…and did not do so? Did you know she had enough sponsorship money to treat her injuries and get her moving again – and instead handed victory to one Firth Odair, courtesy of contributing the remaining amount needed to supply him with weaponry? Did she tell you that?"

Cal closed his mouth hurriedly, looking a cross between confused and disgusted, unsure of whether to lambast Nihlus over the accusation or ask Sam about its veracity.

"Now you see how _misguided_ love is, don't you?" Nihlus pushed on, luring Cal forth with attack after attack on Sam. "After all...how can someone like you - well-meaning and pure of heart - love someone like _her_, who shed no tears over killing his dear, dear cousin Clara…particularly when she shows no inkling of giving him back the passion he wants?"

"That's not true!" Sam defended herself loudly, refusing to meet Cal's unsettled stare. "I…you _know_ why I did it! You know Firth and Clara wouldn't have made it past the Careers! You know everything!"

"Thank you. It has taken you _quite_ a long time to admit that fact, Miss Parker," Nihlus raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. "But what happened to _sweet, sensitive_ you? How _angry_ you get when confronted with the truth! You are a standard-bearer of your _race_, Miss Parker…destructive only when confronted with the nature of your cannibalistic _emotions_. I, however, will let you find out for yourself how powerful those can be. If you hurry, you can reach your…_friend_…Clayton before his shift on the Hereford ranch. Maybe you'll experience a little heartbreak yourself."

"Oh," he added as he turned away towards the plains, just kissed with the first color of a rising sun. "Make sure to ask him about Abilene, would you? I think you will be interested."

Cal had his eyes settled on Clara's grave as Nihlus disappeared into the brightening dawn, his gaze flitting across the stone-cut letters on her tombstone. He raised his head slightly; just enough to catch Sam's wandering eyes.

"Was that all true?" he asked her quietly, his words barely more than a whisper. "All that…that guy said? All that about Clara?"

Sam fretted, pulling on the end of her ponytail with her left hand. She kicked at a spot of dust on the ground, unable to look into the boy's hurt eyes. "Cal, it wasn't like that…I…you can't believe everything he says!"

"No, I shouldn't, should I?' Cal returned a pained look of one realizing his folly. "Except that the other stuff he said was true. So why shouldn't I believe him? _God_, Sam, what else are you hiding from me?"

"I _loved_ Clara! You know that!"

"Just not enough to bring her home, huh? It's alright, Sam…I've learned how to move on. I can do it from her; I can do it from you if I have to."

She closed her lips, turning her head away. Sam didn't have the kind of reply she knew he'd want – that everything Nihlus said had been a lie; that he was nothing but a manipulative mastermind trying to break apart anything he could. Unfortunately, she knew that deep down he was right. She _had_ thrown Clara to the wolves in order to bring home Finnick's son; it had been a question of benefits and losses, and trying to keep Clara alive with her broken leg would have been near impossible. But how could she get Cal to see that? He had only been here in District 10, watching the Games just as she had always done before being Reaped a year and a half ago. He would have no idea what the process was like.

Cal took her silence for agreement, taking the opportunity to turn away and start the walk back to his home.

"Cal, please, don't do this!" Sam shouted after him, her feet rooted to the spot.

"I need some space," he called back, not bothering to turn around. "Just…let me be, Sam."

She slumped her shoulders as he walked away, unable to keep him back. She wasn't entirely disappointed; Nihlus had been correct in her aims. She _did_ love Clay. After what Storm Hawthorne had told her back in her Games in regards to finding another love, she truly believed she'd done so with her childhood friend. Clay was everything she wanted.

So why had Nihlus been so cryptic about him?

Sam tossed the question about her mind as she started walking towards the Hereford family ranch – the herd headquarters where Clay worked as a field hand. Nihlus had been more than happy to tear her apart in the past; the simplest answer would be that he'd merely attacked her at her most vulnerable point. Yet Occam's Razor rarely applied to Nihlus – the man had always been a harbinger of change, typically the bad sort.

Sunrise lit up District 10's prairie fields with a golden brush, painting the rural plains full of vivacity. Sam didn't share the same animation as the chirping sound of robins and jays in the morning air; instead, nervousness crept up from her gut like a snaking python. Something Nihlus had said at the end of his confrontation with her had struck her as particularly odd, and she hoped Clay could clarify.

What was Abilene?

The Hereford ranch stood slightly smaller than Sam's father's establishment, but the family who ran it managed a similar number of cattle and other livestock. They employed over two hundred ranch hands out of the red-brown barn that served as a de facto control center, spreading out the workers between animal husbandry, feed and maintenance oversight, and herd management with rotational periods to keep everyone fresh. Clay had just walked up to the barn to report for his shift when he caught sight of Sam coming.

"What're you doin' here?" he asked her as she walked up, flashing a quick smile. "Miss me while you slept?"

After the confrontation with Nihlus and subsequent fallout with Cal, Sam wanted to start a conversation at ease. She grabbed him in a hug, holding the embrace long enough to think of a good way to broach her questions. Clay stepped back in surprise, unsure of Sam's intent.

"Clayton, don't make love to the Parker girl when you're supposed to be working!" another hand called out as he returned the hug and waved a hand to dismiss the complaint.

"Are you okay, Sam?" he asked after a moment. "Little dramatic way of saying 'good morning.'"

"I'm fine," she tried to sound convincing, returning a shy smile in return. "I was…um, just visiting Clara."

Clay exhaled heavily. He had taken Clara's death harshly – and although he hadn't dreamed of blaming Sam for her death as Nihlus just had implied, the pain beneath his skin was evident every time her name was brought up. "This is kinda a bad time to talk about that kind of thing, Sam…"

"I, um…just, someone told me to ask you this," Sam stumbled across her words, attempting to seem as sincere as possible without bringing Nihlus anywhere near the conversation. That had already proven to be a bad course of action with Clara. "This is probably stupid. What's an Abilene?"

Clay showed no outward reaction to her question, but Sam did pick up one odd movement. His eyes dilated sharply as soon as the word was out, making his gaze appear to sharpen and widen at the name.

"I…you know, Sammy, I have absolutely no idea," he said quickly, giving an odd, high laugh at the end. "But hey, if you want to talk about whatever…after work today I can run by, alright?"

"Sure," she chirped. "I…uh, guess I'll see you then, huh?"

"Yeah, yeah," Clay motioned to get away in a hurry, wrapping up the conversation as fast as he could. "Talk to you then, Sam."

He left her behind, heading into the barn with a quick walk that soon abandoned her to her thoughts. Clay's odd way of reacting to "Abilene" haunted Sam as she made her way back to the Victor's Village. Clearly he knew something – but what? Better yet, how would she get him to tell her?

Was Nihlus on to something again?

Jake was preparing to leave for their father's ranch and work as she reached the Village, giving her a strange look as she came up.

"Did you really go out and about in just that nightgown?" he pointed at her purple robe, looking more than a little confused. "Sammy…usually we get dressed, first."

"What's the big deal?" she rebutted, her thoughts elsewhere. "Nobody's judging."

"I guess not. Anyway…something came for you."

Sam felt the nerves creeping back up. "Something?"

"An invitation," Jake fretted, searching for words. "Someone from the Capitol invited you to District 4 – later today."

* * *

**_A/N: Yeah, so that wasn't the most exciting chapter ever. Shout-out to the three reviews I already have; lemme know other readers what you think so far!_**


	3. A Fiery Statement

_**A/N: I've mixed up some canon in regards to some elements of Panem, particularly in regards to the Capitol-District 13 relationship. Figured I could throw in some twists, so be prepared for some new information that goes against some canon. Additionally, the first part of this chapter has some limited pertinent short-term info, but a lot of it is designed for long-term exposition. Just FYI if it seems out of the blue, like "Wtf, dude? You were just writing about Sam going to District 4 and now you're talking military stuff?" It does indeed have purpose!**_

_**Also, I just wanted to make secret police, so yeah. I did.**_

* * *

**The Capitol – The Citadel, Panem Military Command**

At one point a massive airport and transit hub for the world that came before, the expansive airfield, hovercraft port, and command center known as the Citadel oversaw Panem's military might from a centralized location just ten kilometers outside the Capitol. Its white-rimmed Teflon roof mirrored the snow-capped mountains behind it with dozens of unique peaks over each building. A great acrylic glass foyer opened the grand entrance of the massive complex to prying eyes – yet still concealed the great operations of the heart of the Capitol's military machine, primarily hidden underground in a network of old baggage lines, cargo garages, and subway tunnels repurposed into computer server hubs and meeting halls. Three hundred combat-equipped hovercraft called the Citadel home, along with nearly twice that number in support vehicles, ground craft, and dedicated fixed-wing and rotor aircraft. It was not the Capitol's only military installation, but it was the biggest – far surpassing District 2's formidable mountain stronghold.

Trajan Arterius, supreme commander of the Panem military and experienced veteran of controlling a widespread populace, had never liked the aesthetic direction taken at the Citadel. The massive foyer made him feel extremely undersized at only five-foot-nine, as if he was a mere mortal staring up at a monument to Gods. Strange symbols from the civilization before had been refurbished and kept around as well, adding to the odd feel of the place. A great blue stallion, sculpted out of various rocks and metals, greeted employees and Peacekeepers who worked at the installation every day. Within the foyer and above-ground buildings, strange murals – some depicting horrible apocalypses and genocides – and odd remembrances to things that Trajan found no meaning in memorialized a people long since passed away.

It was inefficient and – in Trajan's eyes – a waste of space. Why celebrate a civilization that had died?

Still, he didn't have to deal with it on a daily basis. Trajan's concern lay under the cold alpine earth, deep in the heart of the Citadel's nexus. The white-armored Peacekeepers had no business there; only his gray-uniformed officer corps and black-armored Centurions – Trajan's elite soldiers, loyal more to his word than the state itself – could move freely about the deepest depths of the fortress.

"Commander," a thick-built, middle-aged man with short silver hair on one of the descending elevators to the lower levels greeted Trajan as he boarded. "I received a reply from Nero. He wants a status update on 13's condition immediately."

Trajan hissed. Nero – President Octavian's chief of staff – was no friend to the strict military types. He outwardly preferred the occupier-style Peacekeepers and their secret police branch, the Inquisitors. Trajan personally deemed those units sadistic and undisciplined – despite having to deal with Peacekeepers on a daily basis – yet he had no say in the matter.

"Let's get down to the Hive and put together what we have," Trajan exhaled sharply, rubbing a worn hand along the black delta tattoos etched on his muscular neck. "What kind of news do we have from there so far, Marius?"

Marius Nerva was Trajan's highest-ranking Legate – a purely military officer who had served in nearly every district in Panem and knew the ins and outs of soldiering. He shared his leader's distaste for Nero and the policing forces, and despite a more empathetic outlook towards the districts, he held a similar taste for discipline and following orders. His experience and veterancy had turned him into Trajan's de facto adviser and unofficial spokesman; when the Commandant was unavailable, Marius's words were orders.

"Intel has nothing," Marius replied sharply to his shorter superior. "And by nothing, I mean no communications in or out of the region. Everything east of 12 is a dead zone. Our infertility plague of fifty years ago…we believe it mutated."

Trajan nodded slowly. District 13 – thought by nearly all to have been eliminated back in the Dark Days via the Capitol's arsenal – had only gone underground, signing a non-aggression pact with the Capitol. Being armed with nuclear-tipped missiles, 13 held significant clout over brokering the uneasy peace. The Capitol had been forced to take alternative measures over the years: fifty years after the Dark Days, Trajan's predecessor had surreptitiously deployed a prolonged-dormancy, flea-borne sterility virus into District 13's local area. It had been phenomenally effective according to Capitol Intelligence data packets picked up via microscopic drone insertions – reducing viable births in the Capitol's long-lost enemy by 90%. If it had mutated, however, they faced all sorts of new variables.

"Do we have any data on the prognosis?" Trajan asked, already beginning to put the pieces together.

"It's a comm blackout. I presume the worst," Marius answered coolly.

"We won't jump to conclusions without hard data. Let's put the pieces together."

The Hive was the deepest subterranean layer of the Citadel – a massive coordination center stretching out for a square mile under white fluorescent lighting and cream-colored plastic ceiling tiles. A thousand data analysts, security developers, and weapons specialists worked side-by-side with the top tier of Trajan's officer corps. Down this deep, everyone knew how high the stakes were.

"Big screen," Trajan shouted as he entered the Media Room – an imaging and holographic display center designed to visually depict new information as it arrived. "Let's see the trends."

A central, circular holoimager brought up a three-dimensional image of the geographical area of District 13, rendered in hanging blue pixels that sat idly suspended in the air. The marshy swampland and rivers around the district's fortified perimeter ebbed and flowed as usual, but the real-time feed showed something more interesting: no human activity whatsoever.

"Deep-cover drones don't have much in terms of lifesigns," Marius explained. "A few weak ones, but it looks like something drastic happened in 13."

"You think it's the virus?" Trajan raised his eyes to meet his subordinate's stare. "Changed to something more deadly?"

"I spoke with the biotechs," Marius nodded. "There's nothing else around. No other contagions in sufficient quantity, no radiation leaks, no chemical spill…I can have them run every simulation possible, but we're going to have to send some drones it to get a confirmation. Do you want to send this to Nero?"

Trajan stroked his chin stubble, looking at the still hologram before responding. The situation was interesting…if District 13 had been rendered a non-factor, it tilted power heavily in the Capitol's direction. No other district could truly put up resistance of any meaningful ability; Octavian would essentially have free reign to unleash whatever autocratic whims he wished. The Vox were a concern, but the right application of stealth and counter-insurgency could likely knock them out.

But Trajan didn't want that – not when the young, impulsive ruler had shown his hand by imprisoning the still-incarcerated Phaeston Rex.

"No. Stall him," Trajan ordered Marius. "Tell him a false status quo. I want certifiable evidence before we play a hand."

Ever loyal to his leader over the state, Marius nodded and smiled. "It will be done."

* * *

**District 4**

Sam had only seen this side of Panem during her Victory Tour nearly a year ago. Here the grassy plains and deciduous trees of District 10 dissolved into an alien landscape: the smell of salt and seaweed pervaded, mixed with sights of rocky outcroppings, barren trees topped with leaves only on the ends of spindly branches, and small white gulls that constantly circled on warm risers, looking for scraps of food. Sam could appreciate the change, however; District 4 was a large district, and the sight of the great blue sea spreading towards the horizon instilled her with a feeling of catharsis.

The train she rode in was a far cry from the Hunger Games trains she had ridden on the previous two years. This still had nice accommodations and cruised along at three hundred kilometers per hour, but the ornate veneer and sheer luxury was gone. Only three cars were used for passengers and crew; this train consisted primarily of cargo. Hoppers carried lumber from District 7 and cooled tank cars ferried milk from District 10; refrigeration cars would tote the final cargo from District 4 as the entire train made its way to the Capitol after dropping Sam off and gathering its material.

She was happy to be away from it. The crew had mostly ignored her, never bothering to even speak up. She had been attended to by a single servant whose usual duties involved handling any basic crew concerns. It was patently clear she was an added burden.

District 4's train station lit up with more lights and warmth in the dawn air than did the dilapidated wood station of District 10. Modern ceramic paneling and plastic tiles greeted Sam as she stepped off onto the platform – along with two gold-uniformed men with stone faces and clasped hands.

"Samantha Parker," the taller of the two spoke up as soon as she had taken a step. "Please, come with us."

The smell of the ocean had barely played across Sam's nose as the shock hit her. Who were these men – had they been the ones to bring her here?

"I'm sorry…I don't…" Sam stumbled.

"Capitol Inquisition," the shorter of the two followed up on his compatriot. "It will be in your interest to obey all orders and commands."

"Alright, alright," Sam held up her hands in peace. She had no desire to pick a fight with anyone – certainly not whatever an "Inquisition" was. "Where are we going?"

"No questions. Follow us."

A large black car idled outside the station, flanked by two Peacekeeper armored vehicles. The Inquisitors hurried Sam along, each placing a heavy hand on her quaking shoulders and shoving her forward. She looked around nervously as one of the men yanked open a large door.

"In," he commanded, looking down at Sam as if sizing up a bug before stomping on it. He waved a large pistol in the direction of the car, clearly conveying his intent. Sam had little choice but to follow orders.

She sucked in a deep breath and climbed into the car's rear seat, letting the man close the door harshly behind her. The black-tinted windows of the vehicle shaded the outdoors in a dark curtain as the large car started up, making Sam feel as if she had been deposited in a mobile prison. Things got worse: she turned her head and recoiled at the sight of the thin man who sat in the seat next to her.

"_Bienvenue_, Samantha," President Octavian's small black eyes appraised her with an amused expression, the corners of his mouth turned upwards in a cruel grin. "Not your first visit to District 4, _oui_. Let's take a ride, you and I."

The car sped quickly along the rock-strewn streets of District 4, cutting through residential areas and a commercial district that all outstripped anything in District 10. Sam didn't have time for sight-seeing, however; Octavian's surprise appearance had shocked her into submission.

"Where…where are you taking me?" she spoke up after staying quiet for a few minutes. "Did you bring me out here?"

"Indeed I did," Octavian adjusted a black tie and flicked the tips of his well-oiled hair. "Only for a short time. You can spend the rest how you wish. You see, Samantha, the last time we spoke I asked you about your knowledge of the Vox Plebeius. You claimed ignorance…but I believe you _lied_. After all, not only did it begin in your district – seemingly everywhere now, _oui_ – but there is someone…_close_…to you that _rumor_ says is involved in their ranks."

He laughed just a tone flat, quickly turning his stare right back into Sam's widening blue eyes. "How sweet young love is. Does dear Clayton tell you about his terrorist connections?"

Sam sucked in a breath sharply. What on earth was he talking about?

"I don't…I…" she stammered. Speaking to Octavian was always an anxiety-provoking prospect, and his personal touch now did nothing to soothe her frayed nerves. "Please don't hurt him. I don't know what he does, but he's…he's…"

"Oh Samantha, so quick to defend others at your own expense! A regular paragon," Octavian chuckled, placing the tips of his fingers together. "Monsieur Rex said you were intelligent…at least, he did before I threw him in prison. Perhaps he was wrong. I don't need to hurt the object of your heart directly to achieve my aims. I _could_…but I choose not to. You see, cause and effect does not work that way. If I merely killed him off, then perhaps the effect of such an action would be detrimental – perhaps I would incite _you_ to commit violence, although I believe you to be far too diminutive to take such initiative. No, Samantha, I will provide a cause which brings about the effect I need. I will show you an example today."

He leaned back in his seat, a smug smile playing across his face. "The Vox have spread here to District 4. I assume your _friend_ knows that. You do not, but now you do. Today I will show you just how destructive they can be to every _innocent_ in this world…and why I would choose my loyalties with more caution if I were you."

Sam closed her eyes and slowed her breathing down, struggling to hang on to control. She knew nothing about Clay in regards to anything Octavian said – was the President trying to get something from her? Was he telling the truth…could that even be conceivable? She knew enough about the snake-like man beside her to understand the games he played, but with these circumstances, she couldn't count anything out.

"You didn't answer my first question," Sam said quietly, eyes down and averted.

"Quite right," Octavian replied. "I am glad you noticed that. The Vox planted a bomb on the cargo train tracks this morning, Samantha. I assume they meant to disrupt cargo shipping…but it does not matter. You see, they provide a cause – but only _causality_ will show what the effect will be. My Inquisitors learned of this action and made an act of their own. The Vox are going to kill a lot of innocent people today. Several children; a pregnant mother; fathers. Blood for blood, I believe. _C'est la vie_. Should they simply have abided by the Capitol's decrees – and my goodwill – none of this would have unfortunately happened. You are all so much like children in the districts."

"Perhaps you will learn a little something about your allegiances yourself, Samantha," he mused.

The car unloaded Octavian, Sam, and a gaggle of Inquisitors alongside a concealed area near a wide expanse of docks. Great wooden piers tethered a number of ships to the shore, bobbing and rising in the foamy morning tide. A number of overall-clad workers and fishermen filed with heads down from the streets to the docks, none of them catching sight of the presidential group hidden just well enough to stay out of the light but catch a wide view of the area.

"That," Octavian pointed out a rather large fishing ship to Sam. "Is the largest vessel in District 4's civilian flotilla. Forty-five people work on it; two are children, one of them just seven. Three women work on it; one of them is five months with child. Many of the others have families. Can you imagine the faces of their sons and daughters when they do not come home tonight?"

"No!" Sam protested, surprising herself with a bout of courage. "You can't do this…you have to warn them, tell them that they're in trouble! You can't just kill them!"

"I can, and I will," Octavian smiled. "This is the effect, Samantha. You see what the hands of childish terrorists force me to do…they will kill their own this morning. I wish I could protect these people, but sacrifices must be made."

The vessel in question had just cast loose its moorings, slowly motoring out into the bay with a churning white wake as Octavian finished. The President looked on smugly, his face in sharp contrast to Sam's horrified expression and churning stomach.

_Bang!_ A white light split from the sides of the wooden ship, blasting out pieces of wood in all directions across the bay. Just as people on the docks took note, the explosion caught the vessel's fuel line. _Boom! Boom!_ Orange flames and red blasts roared out of the doomed ship, sending fireballs snarling into the morning sky and black smoke billowing upwards. Flaming bodies writhed about on the vessel's burning deck; others careened off into the sea, bleeding and charred beyond recognition. To Sam's horror, a small figure came running up from below the deck, on fire and falling to the deck. The figure swatted at a head full of flames for a moment before going still.

Fire billowed out from the sinking craft as the remaining crew still alive hurled themselves overboard, desperate to cling to their lives. Oil from the vessel had begun to leak across the sea, however; those who did make it off the ship quickly found no safe haven on the surface of the bay. A small motorboat already went flying off towards the wreck, but very few survivors made progress away from the disaster scene. A few burnt bodies floated amongst the flaming sea's surface; the rest faced a watery grave, entombed in the bowels of the vessel and forever damned to the ocean's bottom.

"Oops," Octavian laughed cruelly next to Sam, folding his hands behind the small of his back. "I hoped you learned something today, Samantha. Enjoy the rest of your stay in District 4…not _too_ well, though. These are certainly dangerous times to be you."


	4. District 4

Octavian had promptly abandoned Sam after his curt lesson on tyranny, with his Inquisitors very succinctly informing her that the next train – stopping by in three days – would be expecting her. Sam had no desire to live as a homeless squatter in the meantime, so she turned towards the one place in District 4 she knew she could find refuge: the Victor's Village.

Actually _finding _the Village had taken her some time, stretching the day all the way into the late morning. Sam walked observantly from place to place around the town square, getting her bearings amidst a crowd of far more people than lived in District 10. To Sam, it seemed as if a million citizens called District 4 home. Even with many out and working on the boats for the daily shift, many more bustled around the business district – peddling their wares at street-side vendor stalls, manning booths and stores, or even just making purchases idly and without any sort of hustle. Residents of District 4 didn't show the same sort of urgency to save time as did people in District 10; here, it seemed to Sam that most had enough to get by without breaking their backs. The ruthless poverty of the Slaughterhouse Ward back home didn't show its head here.

Still, the signs of discontent were hard to miss. Sam passed three poverty-stricken men, hard at work scrubbing graffiti off the side of a stone building under the supervision of a rifle-toting Peacekeeper. She could just make out words scribbled in scarlet: "_Cronus hears your voice!"_ A half-dismantled image of a capital V with a "p" attached to its right spoke told Sam all she needed to know about who the perpetrators had been.

She wondered if they were dead yet. Clearly Octavian had no patience for whoever the Vox _really_ were.

The Victor's Village in District 4 stood as no different than the same avenue Sam lived in back amongst the dust of home. The same white-painted wooden buildings rose the same two stories each, differentiated only by personal touch and the fact that eleven out of the twelve were occupied. Not knowing which to turn to, Sam selected a hiding space to observe – a high patch of scrub-like reeds at the end of the street. She nestled into the spot, kicking a small, thorny cactus out of the way and biding her time.

A half-hour dragged forth into an hour without any activity. Sam idly picked at a fingernail, wondering if _anyone_ would give her a clue as to who to turn to. She figured either Jetty or Finnick – really, Finnick's entire family – could work. She had barely met Annie – and would be entirely unrecognizable to Firth – but no doubt she held some clout with the Odairs. After giving away Clara to save their son, she felt she was owed at _least_ shelter until she could return home.

_Finally!_ The familiar shape of Firth trotted down the avenue, walking up to the second house on her right, alerted Sam to a friendly face. She waited a minute before he had entered to get out of position, dusting her lilac blouse off and knocking away bits of plant material. She stopped with a start – how on earth could she explain her sudden appearance in District 4 to anyone here?

_Oh hi Finnick, the President brought me out here so he could show off blowing up a boat to scare the pigs out of me! Could I possibly stay over?_ She ran the thought through her head. It already sounded ridiculous. Still, what choice did she have? It was either that or sleeping in the street and begging off people for the next three days.

The white door, adorned with a wreath of woven reeds, loomed imposingly as Sam walked cautiously up the steps to the Odair household. Before she had a chance to knock, however, the door opened on her.

Standing at the entrance was _not_ who Sam had expected to see.

Dressed loosely in a cream-white apron smock stood River – the younger sister of Gannet, Sam's small ally during her own experience as a tribute. She had hardly grown in the year since Sam had first met her, still standing far smaller than the visitor on the porch. Her brown hair fell around her in the same wavy style that stuck out in Sam's memories of Gannet; her eyes bearing the same sea-green depth that betrayed feelings far beneath her skin. Like her late sister, River still carried herself with the same sort of tall, stoic posture that made her seem perpetually trying to divert attention.

"Hello," River said quietly, repeating the same word she'd first met Sam with.

Sam lost her prepared words immediately. She opened her mouth to speak, closing it when nothing came out. River's still, statuesque poise before her brought back too many memories of Gannet's quiet courage; of the girl Sam had fought to protect and had failed – just like with Clara. Sam fought off the emotions and images, refocusing on the moment. River seemed to be expecting something, unwavering in her stance.

"I..." Sam tried. "Hi."

"You live in District 10," River replied simply, stating the obvious. "Don't you?"

Before Sam had time to answer, a small head poked out from behind River's legs. A tawny-haired face stared back at Sam with wide brown eyes, appraising her like an alien. One small hand grabbed onto River's thigh as if it would run away, gripping with enough force to bleach the skin white.

"Whozat?" the small girl perked up with a hummingbird's voice. "Riv whozat?"

River looked embarrassed, her cheeks flushing with color. "Go inside, Brook. Go."

A third figure shouldered his way past to the two girls at the door, staring down at Sam with a mixture of confusion and amusement. Finnick Odair's bronze hair shone with a glossy touch in the District 4 sun, adding a layer of complexion to well-tanned skin. He scratched at his shoulder, tugging the white t-shirt he wore and trying to figure out what to make of the scene.

"I'm not really sure if I should be shooing you away or something," he said with a raised eyebrow to Sam. "Strange timing you have. But…tell you what, why don't I _not_ ask what the circumstances are and you come in. It's not like I haven't seen weirder things."

"I'm really sorry, Finnick," Sam tried to appear humble. "I…got invited out and the next train doesn't arrive for three days. I'm kinda stuck here, and I don't really no anybody else besides Jetty."

"Lord knows you do _not_ want to stay with her," Finnick scoffed with a touch of humor, chewing on a piece of sugar gum that had long since lost its flavor. "Well, shoot. Annie just loves company. Come in before the Peacekeepers start snooping around after this morning's events."

"Ah…what happened?" Sam feigned ignorance, knowing all too well what he meant. "I can't say I really pay much attention to news."

"Don't worry about it," Finnick waved off the question, leading her into the warm confines of the home. "One of those things where it's better not to know anything."

"Mr. Odair, I should…the upstairs still had some work," River looked back and forth between Sam and Finnick, indecisive on a course of action.

"Why don't you take the rest of the day off," he shook his head at her. "If you really want something to do, you and my lazy son can entertain Sam here until we figure out what to do with her. Guess I'll go fetch him from upstairs…"

Finnick tossed an extra stick of gum in his mouth as he tromped away, leaving Sam alone with River and her fidgeting younger sibling.

"You…work for Finnick?" Sam stumbled over the inevitable awkward silence. "Gannet said your family worked on the boats."

River flinched slightly at the name drop, closing her eyes for a moment. "Two days a week I come here. The Odairs offered to pay me some money to help clean around their home after…after those Hunger Games. It's more than I would make on the boat. My parents don't complain."

Little Brook stuck her head up again, taking the break in conversation as a chance to figure out the identity of the newcomer. "Who're you?"

Sam smiled with a bright grin, crouching down to put herself at the small girl's height. "I'm Sam. Wanna be friends?"

Brook looked suspiciously back. "Why doncha have friends of your own?"

"Brook! Stop!" River admonished her. "I'm sorry, she's six…"

"No, she's cute," Sam laughed. "You're not gonna listen to your big sister, are you Brook?"

"She's not _big_. She's only fourteen. I'm _six_."

"I think I get how this works," Sam chuckled, unable to do anything but smile.

River sighed and let her arms fall to the sides of her smock. "She gets in trouble a lot. I try to get her to act normal."

Finnick came tromping back, Firth in tow. The Odair's only son looked as if he had just emerged from the shower, his thick hair wet and slick. Sam's gut immediately heaved – the last time she'd seen Firth, he'd watched over Clara's last moments. Her blonde hair, dirtied by the muddy muck of the arena's ruined metropolis, ran across Sam's thoughts. She gripped the hem of her blouse to get a momentary grip.

"I don't think you two have met," Finnick said, looking bored. "Sam, Firth. Firth, she sort-of saved your ass, so play nice and don't do something too stupid. I know you'll do _something_ stupid."

"Learned from the master," Firth kidded his father before turning to Sam. "I guess I should thank you, huh?"

"No," Sam shook her head, trying to avoid any topic remotely associated with the prior Games. "You don't owe me anything."

"Ah. I'm sorry about Clara," Firth tried to appear diplomatic, instead tripping into exactly the hole Sam wanted to dodge. "She mentioned you a lot. I figured you were close…she was a great girl."

Sam looked away, crossing her arms over her chest. No matter what Firth said, she knew she understood Clara far better than anyone here. This was the _last_ place she wanted to talk about her late friend – at least in District 10, others would understand. Others knew her there – had grown up with her, had watched her flourish. Here Clara was merely a passing name and reference; a building block for the most recent victor. It did her no justice.

River looked between the two, filling in the awkward pause by pawing at her smock.

"Tell you guys what," Finnick stepped in hurriedly, circumventing further deterioration of the situation. "Firth, why don't you and River show Sam around to some places, since there's plenty of day left? Annie and I will look after Brook for the day…just get back here before dark with all the crap that's going on."

"Sounds fun," Sam folded her hands, raised her eyebrows and put on a smile. "Um…what do we do?"

"You don't have a lot of water in District 10, do you?" Firth asked her.

"Nope. Well…we have a pond."

"That doesn't count," he smirked, flashing her the same sort of smile she'd seen Finnick give a thousand times in the Capitol. "Let's go to the beach."


	5. Dead and Alive

Blue crystalline water swished around Sam, lighting up her world with a myriad kaleidoscope of colors and sensations. Salty water flooded her nose and ears, with small coastal fish frightened away in a flash of movement and color. Bits of seaweed and swirling bubbles flashed before her eyes as she kicked her legs, propelling her further into the briny sea. With a start, she choked and gagged on water that slipped past her throat, pulling her head above the surface and coughing with a great fit.

For being in only four feet of water, Sam had plenty of work to do in navigating the ocean.

Nearby, Firth laughed uproariously at her first salt water foray, hardly containing himself as she coughed up a lung's worth of water.

"You're not supposed to _breathe_ underwater, Sam," he said with a hearty grin. "You're a natural."

"It's not funny!" she protested with a self-depreciating smile, hacking up as much as she could. "I could drown or something. How would you feel then?"

"I'd be very hurt, of course," he said with comical sarcasm. "Really. There might even be tears."

Sam splashed water at him, pouting her lip out and shaking water off of the old bathing suit Finnick had lent her from Annie's attire. It didn't fit great – Sam stood two inches taller than Firth's mother – but it would do.

She found Firth highly interesting. He was full of excitement and a zest for life – and although she'd fully overheard his conversation to Clara about his troubled past back in the prior Games, he managed his inner demons well. Firth had been fully comfortable taking the lead with the two girls, quickly getting over his awkward introduction with Sam and now engineering a fun-filled day. To Sam – always happy for a new experience that didn't try to kill her – she couldn't ask for anything more.

"I don't think you can drown in three feet of water," River emerged out of the sea like a mermaid, effortlessly gliding out of the water. Sam didn't quite know what to make of her: the small girl shared her late sister's serious and quiet demeanor, reserving words for what needed to be said and approaching problems directly. River was a drastic foil to Firth's easy-going nature; she seemed like the last person to want to idle around. Perhaps it was her poorer upbringing or the aftereffects of losing Gannet – but Sam sensed something else beneath her ocean-green eyes and sloping face.

"That's about the deepest water we have in District 10," Sam said sheepishly. "So I probably could."

"You're pretty hopeless, I'll admit," Firth nodded.

Sam gaped with a smile. "You are so mean; did you know that?"

"That's what they say."

"I just met you, and all you do is make fun of me!"

Firth laughed, motioning towards the ocean. "Here, I'll get you something to pick you up. Gimme a sec to find it."

Before she could protest he dove back into the water, his lithe frame cutting like a dolphin through the sea. Sam threw her hands up in mock anguish.

"He does that a lot," River looked on, making patterns in the shore sand with her big toe.

"No, it's okay," Sam waved off concern. "He's funny."

River drew softly and silently, carving out a curving heart in the sand. She tailed it off at the bottom, tapering the design into a swirl that pooled a small crater of water. A wave came in from the sea, sweeping over the heart and wiping away her drawing as quickly as it had come. River looked down at the sand for a moment before looking up – as if asking a question from the small action.

"You wanna see Gannet, don't you?" she brought up to Sam spontaneously.

_What brought that up?_ Sam thought. River seemed to think in different ways – seeing beneath other people, past their skin and into their thoughts. She had an eerily haunting way of picking out tiny perceptions that both made Sam empathize with her and feel goosebumps crawling up her arms.

"I'm…I guess, sure," Sam babbled, unsure of how to respond. "Can I?"

"She's in the community plot," River looked down again, idly squiggling a line with her toe. "My mom and dad couldn't afford anything else. Most poor people like us…they just burn the bodies or dump them to the sharks."

She turned away, sniffing and shielding her face. Sam began to wonder whether the girl didn't show her emotions because she didn't feel them as deeply…or because she'd learned _not_ to. The latter seemed not only more plausible, but more pitiable.

"You two were close?" Sam took a weak stab at drawing out more from her.

"Yeah."

_Well that didn't work_. "How's your little sister been taking it?"

"She cries because the rest of us do. She's six. I don't think she really understood what happened…I dunno if she does now, either."

Sam nodded. "How have you been doing with all that?"

River kicked a clod of sand into the water, playing with a piece of her wet hair and winding it about her finger. "Are you asking because of your friend?"

"A little," Sam internally recoiled at her perception. "I wanna know about you, too."

"I'm not a very good person to come for advice," River replied succinctly. "I keep everything inside of me. It's probably not healthy. It took a lot just for me to come to you during your Victory Tour…or even now. Maybe I trust you a little bit. One day it's probably going to come bubbling back up and I'll do something stupid…but that's how it is."

Firth emerged out of the water and broke up the conversation in a hurry. He tossed something small, oblong, and red at Sam, letting her grab it and find out for herself what it was. She felt something sharp in her hands as she opened them, looking down into two beady black eyes that stared back with crustacean annoyance and impatience. Two burnt orange claws clicked at her, causing Sam to shriek and toss it back at the water.

"What is that?" she yelled.

"Well _now_ he's probably mad you just hurled him ten feet," Firth said. "It's a crab."

"It's like a bug. A sharp bug."

"Yeah, it's actually a spider. Just a sea spider."

Sam shrank back with a look of horror. "Really? Augh…"

"No, I just made that up," Firth laughed. "We'll probably be eating one tonight, so hope you got the stomach by then."

"It's a nightmare," Sam groaned. "I thought I got enough of eating spiders in the arena. But…um, Firth, River was gonna take me away for a bit. Could we meet you back at your house by dinner? I swear we won't run away."

"Well, now I know that as soon as I turn my back you're gonna run away," Firth teased. "But yea, go ahead. I'll see you guys then."

As the group split up, Firth turned around and shouted back at her: "I'm really taking this rejection personally, Sam!"

"Did…were you dropped on your head as a baby?" Sam tried to send banter back.

Firth laughed uproariously, waving her off and trotting back towards the Victor's Village. River led Sam away from the water and away from town, heading out towards the less-dense areas of District 4. Willowy grasses coated the dry, rolling hills here, yellowing with the autumn season. Small pine trees didn't lose their needles like the trees in District 10 dropped their brightly-covered leaves; instead, they seemed to embrace the seasonal change just as the citizens of the coastal district did.

A long, flat, dug-out area of land signified the beginning of the district communal grave. Thousands of simple concrete markers indicated the burial sites of those with family members who had sacrificed in one area or another to pay for a loved one's eternal rest. No headstones marked any site of note; uniformity dominated the graveyard.

"Right here," River pointed solemnly to a small, barely-marked plot. She had barely spoken during the entire walk, her thoughts elsewhere. "I visit a lot. Nobody ever bothers me…I think people mostly forget about this place. I like to think Gannet can still hear me when I'm here."

Sam squatted down next to the grave, reading the simply-inscribed GANNET FREMONT marker signifying that the small girl who had accompanied her through life and death in the arena lay under a mere few inches of dirt. There was something somber about it to her: for all the special things that Gannet had been – for all that she'd fought her way through trials and tribulations as an underdog with no business being in the Hunger Games – she now was relegated only to being one of many forgotten, lonely graves in a district far too busy and populated to remember these names.

A small plant grew at the top of the concrete marker, full of leaves that hadn't dropped off yet in the late season. Sam ran her hands over the plant, caressing the flora with all the respect she could muster for her late ally.

"It's strawberry," River said quietly from behind her. "I planted it when nobody else was here a little after…she came home. Gannet liked to help people. I figured maybe someone who was hungry could find it and get the fruit. She'd still be able to help someone that way."

"She did," Sam smiled and let go of the plant. "She helped me. She didn't even really know me."

"She never really had a chance in the arena," River shook her head with faint acceptance. "I wouldn't either if I got picked. It's like that. We've had less volunteers the last few years. Scylla last year, I guess. You had Cascade."

"Um…how many times is your name going to be in?" Sam thought with a burst of fear. She wouldn't be able to make it back from the Capitol sane if River was Reaped.

"Fifteen. This year," River acknowledged as if reading it blankly from a card. "I guess that's not really a good outlook."

Sam got to her feet, giving River a reassuring pat on her shoulder and a forced smile. "You won't be picked. You'll be fine."

"_Now_, you don't have a very good track record with such predictions, do you Miss Parker?"

A tall, bulky man in a Peacekeeper uniform had entered the graveyard undetected, strolling up nonchalantly and with the slightest bit of a saunter from behind River. Sam grabbed the girl and pulled her behind her, determined to keep her away from whoever the antagonistic-sounding newcomer was – who apparently knew her, to boot. The man sported an unshaven face; his hairy facial shadow masked a worn and tough skin, used to long days under the Pacific sun. A pair of enormous hands ended two long, lanky arms, attached via broad and low-slung shoulders to a strong body. The Peacekeeper outfit frayed in several places; ceramic armor plate hung loose. Whoever the man was, he _wasn't_ a Peacekeeper: true members of the Capitol's policing force kept everything in order. This man seemed positively unkempt in comparison.

"Who are you – and how do you know me?" Sam spoke cautiously, careful not to incite violence with no onlookers.

"Confused, Miss Parker?" the man looked amused, raising an eyebrow and eyeballing her with a pair of ghost-gray eyes. "This seems rather familiar…you and I and a bystander, alone overlooking a corpse. I must say…I am _repulsed_ by the stench of rotting human carcasses. That odor which does not emanate from the ground disgusts me by the mere notion that I walk over a piecemeal mausoleum. It is a pollutant of the highest order; seeding the Earth with decaying meat in an affront to the world nature has provided."

"We were just paying respects," River spoke up with trepidation from behind Sam, huddling closer to her in fright. "We're not starting trouble."

"It may appear that way to you, but Miss Parker and I know that trouble is not _found_, but does the finding _itself_," the man shot her down harshly.

The way the man spoke struck Sam in some familiar way. Something about his expansive choice of diction, his judgmental tone and – most oddly – his address of her as _Miss Parker_ caused a nerve to fire deep in her brain. Sam tried to put the pieces together; tried to round up all the clues on where she could have met this strange, unorthodox man before. She had only been to District 4 once, and then had stayed within the confines of her Victory Tour party. Had he come from the Capitol?

"I admit I feel like a corpse _myself_," the man didn't wait for a response. "This…sagging _flesh_ hanging off of frail primate bones; a gut full of gelatinous digestive fluids sloshing around in sacs of thin, wet tripe all too easily burst by correctly-applied pressure or the point of a blade. I find myself wondering frequently how I can stand it. Darwinism should have weeded out something this pathetically fragile."

"What are you here for?" Sam demanded. The man showed no signs of trying to hurt her – if he had been a Peacekeeper, she likely would have already been in custody. Was he Vox?

"What am _I_ here for? Why…I presumed you would be more interested in why _you_ are here," the man countered. "I have _watched_ you since your arrival; tracked how that limp python Octavian dragged you around as a lost puppy, administering an overblown act of counterterrorism and believing it would so much as _slow me down_. But what am I here for, well…that would assume I had a _purpose_, would it not Miss Parker? And we both know the purpose of walking, talking, thinking husks of flesh such as you…their only meaning is to rejoin the discord from which they were born. To go _extinct_."

The answer hit Sam like a sledgehammer: "That's not…possible."

"Merely inescapable," the man said. "That's it, Miss Parker - see through the stringy, pink skin, past these lifeless eyes and beyond a primitive hominid brain and realize the _source_ to whom you speak. Realize that I can go _anywhere_, be _anything_ or _anyone_, limited only by my creativity and the physical laws of an imperfect universe. See that you are only a small girl speaking to something so inordinately beyond your comprehension that you fail to piece together obvious clues until they are forced down your mammalian esophagus."

Nihlus laughed softly, allowing himself a measure of arrogance. "It is so _easy_ for one to be caught in the throes of competition…and to find that Octavian had brought you here, _well, _it tickled my thirst for information. And you…you just keep finding new ways to keep me entertained. Tell me…why don't you introduce your little friend who clings to you like a wounded animal? Did I bring up too many memories of her dead sister…too easily eviscerated by a raging bull from District 2 who spilled her guts across the desert?"

"You stay away from her!" Sam snapped, clenching her fists. Nihlus had managed to invade _every_ facet of her life, snaking his way into not only her waking moments in District 10, but now following her every move. She faced the prospect of every cornered animal with no room to run: the only option left was to resist. "If you want to keep coming after me, do it. You stay _away _from her and everyone else I know! You took away enough already!"

"And who are you to decide what enough is?" Nihlus appraised her curiously. "Because there is only one term for how much is…'enough.' There is only one number for that."

He smiled with a sadistic grin: "More."

* * *

_**A/N: Always wanted to do Invasion of the Body Snatchers-type stuff. Yeah son. Though for an explanation of what Nihlus is, Trajan actually leaks his reality back in "Empire" during his second meeting with Sam. Or you can just PM me/use the review button if you got questions. (/blatantly fishing for reviews)**_

_**Lemme know your thoughts – on Nihlus, on River/Firth, on District 4, whatever. **_


	6. A Broken Home

_**A/N: I was originally going to write a more feel-good chapter, but that was boring so I re-wrote and edited. So…yay morbidity. I actually had this planned for a while, but never really made it into words. Now it is. It's not a short-term thing, so to reassure you all, I'm not going to pull the trigger on anything too crazy. Just setting stuff up.**_

* * *

With nothing to lose, Sam had told River everything.

Clara's entrance into the Games – and Nihlus's confrontation at Gannet's grave – made Sam reassess her modus operandi. She had run from danger long enough. Nihlus, the Capitol, the Hunger Games – all had taken from her and would continue to do so as long as she put up no resistance. While Sam couldn't conceive of anything significant – not like the Vox, who she considered just as bad – she could stand up for herself. So what if there were consequences? They would have come anyway.

To her credit, River accepted Sam's information about Nihlus without so much as batting an eyelash. The physical meeting had shaken her, but once she knew the details, River seemed far more at peace. Gannet's death had scarred her, but it had also forced her to find some resolve deep within her guts – resolve that powered her through frightening realizations such as this.

Neither girl spoke of the incident when they arrived back to the Odair household. None of their hosts needed to know.

Pleasing aromas of hearth-seared seafood greeted the two as they returned. Wafts of gray-white steam simmered out of the expansive kitchen where Finnick maneuvered around Annie, navigating pans of sizzling shellfish and pausing only to plant an exaggerated kiss on his wife's cheek. Brook idly stirred a pot of batter on the floor nearby, both helping the cooking process and satisfying her amusement. To Sam, the whole scene came off as entirely alien; it spoke of something she'd had little of as a child – _family._

Returning to District 10 felt like a let-down in comparison. Gone were the rocky shores kissed by the refreshing blue waters; no more were the swimming schools of small fish and fluttering wings of a white gull in the sky. Instead, dust – and lots of it – greeted Sam back to the prairie autumn. The familiar feel of a lonely district's poverty returned.

Changes had drastically been implemented in her short absence. The Peacekeeper count skyrocketed – increasing twofold at the least. Sam couldn't trek more than one hundred feet throughout the Wards without catching sight of yet another white-armored police unit; in the town square, dozens paraded about in shows of force. If Octavian had been worried about the Vox, he had clearly ramped up his defense.

Sam meant to confront Clay over the issue – over whether or not Nihlus had been correct in his assertion that the object of her love was truly a member of the shadowy terror cell. Yet every time she summoned up the courage to pop the question, he diverted conversation just enough to swing her into another thought: Shallow laughs, self-interested talks, and slow walks around the forest replaced any lingering conflict between the two over Clara's death in the prior Games. Sam felt herself growing closer and closer to Clay, pulled along like a net with his sweetening demeanor; still, she felt equally growing bored of his reluctance to approach any subject with any reasonable depth - including their own budding relationship. The connection had grown, but so too had the depth of their relationship slimmed.

In contrast, Sam's relationship with Cal deteriorated at a rapid rate. The boy correctly surmised her lack of desiring anything more than a platonic friendship with him, and – still smarting over Clara's unceremonious demise – had retreated as far as he could from her words. Sam felt oddly at peace with this – more and more, District 10 felt as if it had less and less to offer her. She saw the dusty streets and soft hills of grass more and more a prison and less the home she had always known. Without Jake or her fellow victors, she had few others to turn to.

Soon even those relationships faced a crisis.

Dallas's house lay still as a tomb as Sam entered one particularly cold morning in early January. An icy white sun shared little heat with a landscape burdened by a thin layer of frost. Wispy cirrus clouds hung high in the sky, Valkyries summoning the coming of colder days. A lone brown rabbit squatted near the base of Sam's door, shaking in the cold and hunting around for the smallest bite to eat. The animal spoke too much of District 10 as a whole – pinned by the throes of the security lockdown and reprieved of any excess freedom necessary to do anything beyond scraping by in the name of survival.

"Dallas?" Sam called out loudly as she stepped into the hearth, hanging her thick brown coat on the wall and looking around. "Are you here?"

Rustling noises upstairs spoke of company. Dallas didn't greet her with his typical empathetic eyes, however – instead, Cheyenne's heavy footfall on the wooden stairs and gray eyes caught Sam's empty gaze.

"Quiet," Cheyenne hissed at her. "Come up."

Unsure what to make of the curt greeting, Sam followed her mentor up the stairs. Cheyenne's face usually reflected either sarcastic humor or simmering anger; neither had spoken today. Instead, her eyes and tight facial muscles stretched with pain: Distracted thoughts and prolonged stress seemed to plague Cheyenne's every movement. Sam took every step with trepidation, unsure of what to find upstairs – her footfalls light, her hand watching its every touch. Cheyenne grabbed her at the top of the stairs, holding onto her shoulders and concentrating heavily.

"Dallas is sick," Cheyenne spoke gravely, her eyes paradoxically unwavering with both fierce determination and guarded fatalism. "Neither of us wanted you to find out."

"What?" Sam asked. Being 'sick' didn't seem much of a concern to her – after all, the three victors were the wealthiest people in the district; affording the services of the clinicians in town would be no problem. "Do you need me to go to the apothecary and get something?"

"Not sick like that," Cheyenne exhaled sharply, choosing words carefully. "He told me a little over a year ago. This is going to take some explaining…and I don't care what you think of me, but I'm going to hope you don't hold this against him. Part of the reason Dallas struggled getting you sponsorships during your Games – and much of why he turned to Finnick and Rory to help you in that department – was because he was busy getting diagnosed by doctors in the Capitol."

"What kind-"

"Hold on; lemme finish, and then you can ask whatever questions you want. This isn't some ordinary sickness, and he and I have been damned sure to try and keep it under control the past year and change. Unfortunately, yesterday when you were out with…your boyfriend, or whatever that Clay guy is to you…Dallas relapsed. He caught an infection, and with the disease he has, it's not helping anything."

Sam looked horrified. "What…what is it?"

"It's a long-acting form of something called lymphoma," Cheyenne explained. "I'm not friggin' doctor, but all I know is that it's hitting him pretty hard."

"Is he…is…"

"Not yet, but…honestly, Sam, he's not going to be strong enough to join us for the Games this year, that's for sure. He'll probably make it through the summer, but after that…I don't know. I can't tell you, and I'm not going to spin little false hopes at you. The Capitol doesn't give _that_ much of a shit about us in the districts to actually treat something like this. although they probably could if they wanted to. Now, go in and say hi, but keep talk easy, got it?"

Sam gulped. Dallas was _terminally_ sick? She couldn't believe it – she'd spoke to him just a week ago, and he had seemed fine. She didn't know what "lymphoma" was, but whatever it was, it clearly hadn't shown up as anything out of the ordinary. Dallas and Cheyenne had done a masterful job hiding it from her, showing her only the status quo she had known…why hadn't they told her? She could have helped, could have appealed to someone, anyone, for help.

In the back of her mind, however, Sam knew she couldn't have. Cheyenne and Dallas held far too much experience in strategizing to save lives to miss how to handle this – if they hadn't found a solution, she would have done no better. They had merely been able to protect her from the emotional fallout until unable to keep the façade up any longer.

And she'd been idly talking to Clay yesterday just to miss this – going on with a boy seeming more and more detached from reality instead of looking out for those who had looked after her. She felt miserable; guilty even.

Sam sucked in her breath as she looked into Dallas's room. Her mentor, only in his late thirties, looked awful. A yellow pallor from whatever infection he had caught the day before had spread across his skin, casting him in a diseased light. White sheets pulled up to his bare chest, stuck to raw skin with sweat. Dallas's eyes lay half-closed, just revealing small slivers of white beneath heavy lids. His mouth curled down in a grimace of discomfort, only twisting up in catching sight of Sam.

"I've been better," he coughed, sounding remarkably strong in the face of medical adversity. "Before you ask."

"I'm sorry," Sam whispered, approaching softly and cautiously. "I don't really know what to say. I wish I could have…been here."

"Who says you haven't?" Dallas managed to sit up a smidgen, forcing his back against the head of the bed. "It's not about day-by-day. This came out of the blue. Freak accident. I'm _sick_, Sam, I'm not dead."

Sam quietly pulled at the fabric of her shirt, unable to make eye contact. She had no reason to feel guilty, yet it hit her in waves; standing by while Dallas combated disease made her feel like a hopeless spectator content to watch pain and suffering.

"Let me tell you something," Dallas said to her, his voice full of conviction despite the labors it worked through. "I'm not planning on going anywhere any time soon, Sam. But freak things happen, as this did. So no matter what…last year on the Victory Tour during the train ride, I told you a little bit about my past. About what I wanted out of life…maybe to adopt a kid from the community home when Odessa and I were together. Well, maybe he's no more for this earth and that dream looked like it was dying, but that doesn't mean I didn't find new ways to see some happiness in this dust bowl we live in. In just a year and a half, you've been as good as any daughter or son I could have hoped for. Just having you and Cheyenne here for me is better than anything else I've known since Odessa died. It's more than good enough to know that somebody cares."

"I…my dad never really cared much for me," Sam piggybacked on Dallas's admission, her heart warming up to his kind words. "And…you and Cheyenne have been there for me, too."

Dallas laughed. "Well, you just hang on to Jake, too. Maybe he's your brother, but he'll always look out for you. I'm going to try and take a nap, Sam, so go have some fun. Don't get too hung up on me…like I said, I'm not going anywhere."

Sam waved gently with a smile, walking slowly from the room as Dallas turned over to his side. Cheyenne loitered outside the door, her arms folded over her chest.

"You wanna talk about it?" Cheyenne grunted. After receiving no response, she nodded towards the stairs. "Let's talk about it. We're goin' for a walk."

The wintery temperatures hit Sam all the colder as she stepped outside. Cheyenne and she walked towards the square in silence, letting the cold wind whip across the frozen street under the dismal sun. Sam held her head low, watching her feet kick aside blocks of frozen dirt.

"You handling it alright?" Cheyenne brought up after twenty minutes of quiet. "I mean, because…"

"Because I can't handle that kind of thing?" Sam finished, annoyed. "Is that what you meant?"

"Yeah, I kinda did," Cheyenne replied bluntly. "You're the emotional one."

"Well," Sam tried to protest. "Well you're right. I'm not handling it well. So go feel good about yourself for being right; I'm not doing good."

In full view of the town square just fifty meters ahead, Sam squatted down on the ground and broke into tears. Dallas had helped her through the pre-Games anxiety a year and a half back, much of which had helped her stay sane before her own Hunger Games trial by fire. He'd supported her in the wake of that traumatic experience and helped her adapt to being a victor – and now she couldn't as much as find an outlet to help him conquer his own trial.

Cheyenne fretted and paused before kneeling next to her, putting a hand on her shoulder and looking down awkwardly. "Look, I'm not good at this kind of stuff…but Dallas and I have known each other a long time; most people could probably confuse our relationship as some stupid middle-aged married couple. If that's us, then I guess you're our kid. We both…uh, care about you; especially Dallas. You mean a lot to him. Don't think that just because there's not a lot either of us can do for him physically means you're not helping in other ways."

"That was pretty bad," Sam smiled through choking tears, watching a man in a long brown overcoat pause to ask a Peacekeeper a question in the square.

"Yeah, well, touchy-feely's not my thing. That's your specialty," Cheyenne mused. "C'mon. Let's stop by one of the shops in the square and pick up something for Dallas; we can grab something to eat for an early lunch, as well."

Sam got to her feet, nodding and feeling comforted, if not hopeful. The interaction between the man and the Peacekeeper in the square, however, drew her attention away from Dallas's plight quickly. The Peacekeeper had a pistol held at his side, making wide, sweeping gestures towards the overcoat-wearing man and shouting threats about punishment and laws. He gesticulated towards the stocks, clearly attempting to ward the man away. The citizen in the overcoat disagreed – shaking his head animatedly, he stepped back and yelled loudly for all around to hear.

"Are you going to shoot me? Shoot, coward; you're only going to kill a man!"

Sam gasped in horror as the Peacekeeper leveled his gun by his hip, depressing the trigger with trained speed and quickness. The overcoat-wearing man dodged to the side in a flash, the bullet striking him not in the heart as the Peacekeeper intended, but in the shoulder. The man shrugged off the hit as others in the square screamed and panicked; a crowd began to scatter in every direction.

With blinding speed, the man ripped open his overcoat, revealing white packets filled to the brim with unknown contents beneath. Before the Peacekeeper could fire again, the man threw his head back, pulled on a string attached to his chest, and exploded in a roiling cloud of fire.


	7. One Door Closes

Screaming capped off the moment of silence immediately after the suicide bomber's explosion. Cheyenne got up from the ground after throwing Sam down alongside her, quickly snapping her head up to survey the situation. No trace of the antagonist remained; the corpses of three nearby innocents and the still bodies of four Peacekeepers lay motionless on the ground. Nearby Peacekeepers flooded the scene, guns up and at the ready and looking for trouble.

"Get up, run back home," Cheyenne breathed heavily into Sam's ear. "Run as fast as you can. I'll lag behind a bit, make sure nobody's trailing…go. _Now_."

Sam looked up with wide eyes: "What about you?"

"I'll follow. Just get going Sam – do it."

Sam picked herself up on her feet, casting a hasty look back towards the square. Two of the Peacekeepers had rounded on a man scrambling backwards, leveling rifles straight at his face. His expression said everything: innocent on all presumed charges, guilty merely by association and location. _Crack! _A rifle bullet exploded from one Peacekeeper's gun, ripping through the man's head and exiting messily out the rear of his cranium.

Without another word, Sam took off running. She sprinted as fast as her legs would take her, throwing worried looks behind her every fifty feet. She slipped on a patch of icy ground, slipping and landing with a painful _thud_ on the hard turf. Her hands scrabbled on the slippery road before her as she struggled to right herself. Thoughts swam through her mind, dragging her from a chaotic survival situation into a troubled morass of the mind.

The bomber had provoked the confrontation in her eye. He seemingly had _wanted_ to give himself up – to take down a Peacekeeper or two as some sort of statement; to goad others into violence or even to just die on his terms. That spoke of only one faction to her – the Vox. If they _were_ becoming this brazen, however, she had to find the answer to an unfortunate question she had been putting off asking until absolutely necessary: She had to find out if Clay was involved or not.

Ignoring Cheyenne's command, Sam jogged away from the path and towards the more open frozen prairie. District 10's Peacekeeper force would be preoccupied – centered on the square in a reactionary response to the bombing. She would be able to ignore attention for the most part; reaching Clay's house just outside of the Ranching Ward without too much trouble. Sam could no longer ignore Nihlus's warning; despite Clay's strange detachment recently, she could not let him end up in the violent boondoggle that the insurgent faction quickly had escalated. If District 4's boat bombing and this murder-suicide were indicative of the future, things would soon get worse in a hurry.

_Down!_ Sam dropped to the ground suddenly as she spotted a Peacekeeper squad hurrying as fast as they could go to the square. She breathed quietly, holding in each breath just a hair longer than normal to squeeze the air out of her lungs without a sound. Time slowed down with each long stride of the Peacekeepers, their heavy-set steel-tipped boots hitting the ground with crunches of ice and anger.

They departed as quickly as they arrived. Sam hurried back to her feet, taking a last look around for danger before sprinting off towards the Lamar household. She prayed Clay would be home on a Sunday, his day off – somehow available for her finally to know the truth.

Icicles hung off the small, ramshackle Lamar household as Sam ran up, melting in the cold sun overhead. Sam trotted up to the door breathlessly, taking a moment on the rickety wooden porch to catch her breath. Nerves fired off anxiously as she put her hands on her thighs; she wondered silently about what she was about to find out. Would Clay even know about the incident today? If he was home and nobody else had arrived before her, chances were likely he wouldn't know about the blast – unless the Vox connection went far deeper than Sam knew. Would he have been complicit in the act – planning it alongside some underground conspiracy dedicated to the chaos and anarchy Nihlus craved so much?

No. No, he couldn't – he had been by Sam through her whole childhood in good and bad times. He wouldn't dive headfirst into something so stupid, so _vapid_ as a resistance cell. Sam couldn't lose yet another piece of her home; couldn't face the loneliness that had been creeping up on her in District 10 since Clara's death. She _had_ to have Clay's love and trust; had to have him by her side just as he always had been.

Sam took a nervous breath, opened the front door of the Lamar house, and faced her entire world falling apart.

Clay stood before the house's simple staircase, his arms wrapped about the waist of a buxom red-headed girl. His back was turned to Sam as he traded kisses with her, his lips connected with hers as one. Although the intimacy went no further than kissing, Sam felt herself go slack-jawed in surprise and agony. The red-headed girl opened a gray eye, staring straight ahead at Sam with a seductive, smug smile as she pulled her lips away from Clay's.

"Mmm," she purred, lowering her head to appraise Sam with a sharper glare. "Your girlfriend here to join us?"

Clay looked around with a snap, his pupils widening with shock upon seeing Sam's dejected arrival.

"Abilene, gimme a second," he said, letting go of her waist and turning fully around to Sam. "What…what are you doing here?"

Sam shook her head, her mouth still ajar from the surprise of the bombshell. She took a step back from the door, her feet connecting with the porch in a pounding thud that rang hollow in her ears. Clay's betrayal of her trust and faith hit her with finality; she felt her heart ripped out of her chest, her guts falling to her feet.

"You…you…" she gaped, her jaw moving up and down like a fish's, failing to make words. "How could you?"

Clay followed her out slowly, closing the door behind her. "Sam, I know this looks strange, but gimme a second to explain…"

"You couldn't explain in a lifetime!" Sam exploded, her pent-up emotion from the sight roaring out of her in a tsunami of jealousy and rage. "All we've been through…all that's happened, and you're…you're just _screwing_ this other girl? Who even is she?"

Clay bit his tongue, ready for the fallout. "Look, Sammy, you've been gone a lot from the district and things change here…"

"Change? Do you remember what you told me when I got Reaped?" she demanded, her hands waving at her side animatedly. "You said you'd be waiting for me! You wanted me to come back – for what? So you could throw me aside to pick up whichever girl you think looks better than me? Is that what it is? Am I just the latest and last thing that's tired and boring?"

"Don't get _holy_ on me," he snapped, irritated by her emotional rant. "I know what we had together, but then you got cozy with the Capitol and got Clara killed off. You think that made me feel warm and cushy inside? How am I supposed to justify myself to everyone who's not rich and shameless like you that I'm supposed to be with one of our victors that we keep on a pedestal?"

"I tried everything I could to save Clara!" Sam lied. "Don't you turn this around! You don't know what it's like…what it's like to have to watch your best friend die like that, especially when being responsible for everything! You don't know what I went through; all the tears I shed – because you were here trying to have your stupid fun with some dippy girl you dug up who-knows-where!"

"You're right," Clay nodded sharply, his face moving from defensiveness to anger. "You're right. I don't know – maybe that's what it is. Sure seems like a good thing I don't, huh? You look perfectly alright accepting whatever gifts the Capitol wants to give you. I guess when you've grown up in your little ivory tower your whole life, you don't understand what those of us without money every day for basic needs have to go through. Maybe that's why I don't get you anymore, Sam."

"You-"

"No, _you!_ I don't want you Sammy; I don't want you, I don't want your gifts from the Capitol, I don't want any of your kind."

Sam shook her head. The impact of Clay's last few sentences slammed into her with the force of a jackhammer: Nihlus was right. Clay had left behind whatever life he'd had before, casting his lot in with whatever the Capitol wasn't. If Sam was part of that, then she was gone as well. There was no bringing him back; no trying to hold onto him and build a future together. He'd never let go of her for Clara's failure and her future as a victor. The Hunger Games had torn them apart and had irrevocably ripped away any dreams of a happy ending.

"I don't believe this," Sam whispered quietly, her eyes tightening up at the corners. "I don't believe what you're saying. You're throwing away everything you had – _we_ had! You don't even _care_ about me…please, stop, come back! You don't have to do whatever it is you're trying to-"

"I think you stopped caring about me or anyone else some time ago," Clay interrupted her coldly. "We don't have a future together, Sam. There's nothing more you and I can make."

"No! I _loved_ you!" Sam gasped, her throat tightening with the threat of tears. "I _still_ love you! Don't do this, Clay! You're breaking my heart!"

"Not much left to break," Clay finished, opening his door and stepping back into the alcove. Abilene smirked from behind him, her eyes laughing at Sam's broken failure – she'd relished in hearing the whole thing. "Bye, Sam. Try not to kill anybody I know when you mentor them this year."

The door slamming told Sam all she needed to know. She turned away from the house with tears streaming down her face, sobs choking her breath. Sam untied the blue ribbon in her ponytail, letting the fabric ripple out from her hand in a gust of wind and flutter towards the house, where it hit the front porch and lay crumpled in a defeated heap.

Sam walked away with her anguish, her head down and her heart left in tatters.

* * *

_**A/N: Well, Sam's certainly having a dramatically bad day. Sorry for the short-ness; I thought including much else would devalue the impact, so I tidied up inside of 2,000 words. Lemme know your thoughts!**_


	8. Arbiter and Savior

**The Capitol - Federal Detention Sprawl**

The _pitter-patter_ of soft feet tread lightly on stainless steel grates, navigating corridors and passages with the deft skill of a tightrope walker. Silence was an acquired taste, and the artist who maneuvered the labyrinth of hallways and air vents in the Capitol's massive prison complex had mastered the art. The minute puffs of sound that escaped his movement spoke of a child or small thief; the truth spoke otherwise.

_Thap!_ Two hundred pounds of human touched down on the metal floor of a hall without so much as a whisper. Rippling musculature bulged out pockets of misshapen skin; brawny, overgrown bones built solid tree trunks of legs upon which a powerful core balanced. Hefty logger's arms hung down by the man's side, creating an imposing mix of physical brawn and lithe agility. He scurried about the prison with the learned smell of a lab rat, impeccable in sense of direction and immaculate in results.

A single Peacekeeper stood on watch outside the maximum-security gate at the far end of the long hallway, his eyes strolling about the barren steel hall. Security duty – even on Panem's number-one prisoner, one Phaeston Rex – bored even the most easily entertained man. No one man was stupid enough to try and breach layers upon layers of defense that rose from this deep level to the prison's surface, right in the heart of the Capitol.

Thus, entrance took more than a _man_.

The Peacekeeper looked up at the roof with the sound of tapping. He squinted – probably a rat or something had breached containment. It would be recorded, but likely nothing would come of it. Lazy contractors.

He turned back down the hall just in time to see a monstrous man rise up before him. He had just enough time to go for his weapon before the man's hand reached out and snatched him by the neck, hefting him off the ground and cutting off his air supply. The Peacekeeper gasped for breath, his veins bulging and face going purple. His eyes spoke of fear and terror, simply goading more interest from the pair of black, coal-like eyes that returned his gaze.

"There's no shame in dying. It is a natural thing; the order of a meaningless cycle of life," the attacker quipped in a scholarly, flat tone. "The trick is not _minding _that it _hurts_."

The Peacekeeper gaped and mouthed final, quivering motions of breathless shock as he collapsed to the floor, let go motionlessly by the huge man.

"The trick is not _minding_," the man whistled to himself. He studied the door momentarily before sticking his left hand's index finger into the lowest of three interlocking security ports. He hummed a slight tune to himself for several seconds to the sound of the door clicking, giving way to his work and slipping open.

A stately, if underfed, man sat inside on a block of steel. A low-slung cot and sink/toilet combination accompanied him, along with a single slot through which food and messages could be passed. The surroundings did not lend themselves to pride, but the prisoner within its confines still carried himself with a level of dignity – his eyes showing contempt and defiance.

His bright electronic blue eyes raged with all the conniving force they had always carried.

"I expected you," Phaeston Rex stepped off his inglorious seat, rising up to meet his guest. "What took you so long?"

"Tidying up loose ends," the taller, larger man replied, appraising Rex with a strange look. "Do you wish to know the state of things?"

"Please."

"Octavian cows the districts into submission through brute force," the man lied without missing a beat. "Resistance of any kind seems impossible. Any sort of movement would have to occur here – straight in the heart of the Capitol."

The lie had been good enough; Rex, typically a master of seeing through facades, took the fib without question. "I expected as much. And the military response?"

"Commander Trajan could easily be swayed. He spends his time scouting reports that District 13 has been wiped out. Whether or not he is correct is unknown," the man replied without emotion, his body unflinching. "He is no rabid supporter of Octavian. Very few are – his Inquisitors could turn with correctly-applied pressure."

Rex smiled subtly, the corners of his mouth turning up to match the brightening of his electric eyes. "Good. Carry word to Trajan to wait until Octavian is distracted. He will understand when that is – and you. You set up this perimeter so that it can be breached at that time; ensure a path will be clear to reach Octavian then. I expect you to have this done with a month to spare…it seems you have two months, then, to accomplish your goal."

"Of course. It will be done," the large man nodded his head smartly. "Will there be anything else?"

"No," Rex waved him away with a curt hand. "Leave me. Replace the guard, as well."

"As you say, Father," the coal-eyed man smiled with false brightness, stepping back out of the door.

Nihlus shut the security gate, locking it with an inserted finger and staring down at the guard. "You see…the trick is not _minding_ that it hurts."

* * *

**District 10**

Sam hadn't expected to be alone for the Quarter Quell announcement.

Not entirely alone – although she hardly counted Jake. He acted more and more as her personal therapist in the months leading up to March, helping her through crippling loneliness in a district that turned more polarized with each passing day. Clay had backed up his promise of a clean break, having not spoken to her since the fateful day on his porch. Sam had yet to get over the blow – she spent entire nights awake, staring at a dark ceiling and wondering what had gone so wrong. In under two years she had transformed from a bright girl without fanfare into a shunned and ignored pariah. District 10 had almost entirely turned against her.

Cheyenne spent most of her time with a declining Dallas, leaving Sam to entertain herself. For most of the week when Jake helped out at their father's ranch, Sam found herself with hours upon hours of nothing to do. The viewing of the Quell announcement almost interested her; at least it would provide a shake-up to the normal order.

That "order" had grown progressively more chaotic. The Peacekeepers offered bounties and sweetened rewards now for information on the elusive Cronus – a man who Sam had figured out all too well by now. Whatever Nihlus had done to create the Vox, his rabid pet organization now clawed tooth-and-nail in a battle in the shadows for the hearts and minds of the populace with the Peacekeepers. Their populist messages, shrouded in graffiti and minor acts of sabotage, continuously brought them more recruits from the downtrodden in the Slaughterhouse and Dairy Wards. The increasingly brutal tactics of the Peacekeepers in maintaining control couldn't keep up forever against the terror cell.

Tonight, however, Constantine Flickerman took the floor. He owned the show – and the spectre of the Hunger Games rose again. A century of competition, of death and tragedy and tears, would culminate tonight in the announcement of something special. Sam had no doubt that a simple Quarter Quell wouldn't do, even as bad as those were. No, Octavian had to have a grand message.

Jake idly lounged beside her on a rough polyester couch, watching the bright television without much interest. He understood what his sister had to go through as a mentor, but the Games to him had lost their anxiety once Sam had emerged as a victor.

"Does he have a clause in his contract that requires him to change his hair color every year?" Jake pointed out as Constantine strutted across the stage at the Capitol City Music Hall, his hair and tunic a gaudy shade of bright violet. "That ain't good right there."

"I think it's for attention," Sam murmured, more focused on the coming announcement than on Jake's musings of fashion. She didn't fear the Games as much this year, however – how could it get any worse? Clara was dead; there was nobody left to rip out her heart.

_Not true_, a small voice whispered sadistically in her head. _You still love Clay…you can't get him out_._ How delightful would it be to have to mentor him? To kill him off…wouldn't you love that? Live another forty or sixty years wondering if you killed him out of spite and jealousy – because he wouldn't pick you; because you let him down? It's all your fault, stupid girl. _

She ruefully admitted the voice's truth. Sam hadn't gotten over Clay's rejection of her; deep in her head she still told herself that things would work out in the end. Fifteen years of believing in happy endings before the Hunger Games had struck her told her something else lay in wait. She instead did what she was best at; what her father's criticisms had taught her so much: she blamed herself. _She_ had killed Clara. _She_ had failed Clay – it was _her_ fault he'd had to go elsewhere. She'd have to win him back.

"Oh, it's good to be back!" Constantine gushed on air, drawing Sam's attention back to the shimmering television screen full of crimson and gold flashes. "It's been so long, everyone, thank you…all of eight months! Can you believe it!"

He laughed with far too much forced comedy, eliciting raucous shouts and cheers from his shallow Capitol audience. Sam made a face of disgust in response.

"What I can't believe is that they laugh at that," Jake added smugly.

"Oh, we're all having a good time tonight!" Constantine spoke up on the screen, as if in response. "And before I get to boring you all, I am _so_ pleased to introduce…our _very_ own esteemed President Octavian!"

A chorus of screaming trumpets greeted the black-eyed youthful tyrant as he strolled onto stage, throwing up hearty waves in a black-on-black attire and filling Sam's heart with anxious pain. His arrival always meant some new affliction to punish her – whether it was through direct action or a sinister way to hurt the ones she cared about. She could only dread what Octavian would bring up this year.

"Mister President, is it an honor – as always!" Constantine cheer-led from stage. "Tell me…what kind of things can we expect from this year's Games?"

"I think we all will _welcome_ a new style – after three years of mostly-repetitive cheap thrills and predictable outcomes, a new change for Games leadership is at hand," Octavian quickly replied without lifting a finger. "Our new Head Gamesmaker, Diocletian Sulla, promises a return to _excitement_ and _tradition_. In that vein, it is our fourth Quarter Quell – one _hundred_ years of the Hunger Games."

"And we couldn't be more excited for that," Constantine eagerly nodded. "And I believe we have something special…our Quell announcement! Mister President, if you would be so kind…"

A small Capitol girl came prancing out, adorned in a crimson-and-gold dress of glitter and charm. She already moved in a haughty trot, her movements and high-held chin conveying far too much confidence and arrogance. Sam folded her knees up to her chest, gripping them with both hands in readying herself for this year's horror.

Octavian picked up a small wooden box from the girl, flashing a sadistic dark smile for the cameras before lifting the top off the box and plucking out a white strip.

"_Before_ I read this," he tilted his head towards Constantine. "I wish to remind Panem of our first _three_ Quarter Quells. Seventy-five years ago Panem held its _First_ Quell, where the districts themselves elected tributes to the honorable Games – in remembrance that _their_ decision of rebellion caused the destruction of the Dark Days. Twenty-five years later, forty-eight tributes entered the Second Quell, recognizing the two rebels who fell to every Capitol champion lost. The _Third_ Quell recognized the collective guilt of every member of the districts in the rebellion – where tributes were selected from _all_ ages. Now we come to our Fourth Quell at last, a century of peace reigning. We remind ourselves of the laurels of our one hundred years of flourishing civilization, bringing light to a united people."

Octavian whipped the paper strip before him, opening it up with a raise of his eyebrows. He looked amused, almost surprised by what he read – although Sam surmised that the tyrant had planned the Quell long beforehand. Leaving things to chance was _not_ Octavian's way.

"In light of a century of justice and tranquility," Octavian boomed, his voice lacking his usual snake-like accent that so unnerved Sam in person. "This Quell, the Capitol celebrates its dual role as both arbiter and savior. In an offer of grace, the winner of the Hunger Games in the Fourth Quarter Quell will not necessarily have to be a _single person_…but may be a _district_ as a whole."

"But," Octavian interjected before any comments could be made. "The Capitol, in its omniscient reach, will select its tributes…ahead of time. There will be no Reaping Ball. No random chance – no game of numbers in selection of this year's contestants. No, merely cause and effect – the twenty-four valiant warriors who enter the arena in the one hundredth Games will compete on a level field – one of _predetermination_."

Sam blanched. He'd done it again; he'd reached straight through the television and knifed her in the heart. It didn't matter that there were no others in District 10 for her to lose, Clay excepting – Octavian had brought her to District 4 for more than just a witness to counter-terror. She still had people she cared about there – people eligible for the Games. Perhaps this move would counter the influence of the Vox – perhaps it would galvanize legions of spared families from joining their terrorist ranks. Octavian, however, would not let Sam get off so easy.

She could already guess the identity of one tribute.

_I'm sorry River. Whatever I did, I'm so sorry._

* * *

_**A/N: Man, chewing through this chapter was tough. I honestly just needed to get that done and over with. Need...dialogue...ahhhhh. I even had to toss in a T.E. Lawrence reference, yikes.  
**_

_**Sorry for accelerating so quickly through like...five months (gonna be more) of story chronology, but there's only so much "Sam cried and suffered PTSD and beat herself up emotionally" I can write before I bore everyone (and myself...) Don't worry, the fun stuff is yet to come. And the explosive stuff.  
**_


	9. The Gears Churn

_**A/N: Sorry about taking so long on this update; just been a terrible week. If this chapter is the suck, that's why.**_

* * *

Warm summer wind rippled the evening grasses of District 10's plains, tossing Sam's brown locks about her face. She clutched her knees with both hands, her eyes pointing down into the soft, loose dirt. A pale full moon shone down from above, bathing the landscape in a haunting white light. She felt it a fitting backdrop for the eve of the Reaping – where two children wouldn't be selected, but simply announced. They had their fates sealed.

How could she expect to mentor tributes this year, after having failed Clara the year before and now facing the likely prospect of watching more people she knew die thanks to Octavian's edict? It was madness.

The epitaph of Clara's headstone looked back at Sam mournfully, speaking words the late blonde girl could never again say. Sam had no tears for the memories, no mourning left to do in the spirit of sadness – she merely looked down at the stone solemnly, letting her eyes wander across the crags and nooks of the rock.

"Clara," Sam moaned, leaning her forehead into her arms. She could have used her best friend by her side, telling her she'd be okay – instead, all she had was the wind and the night.

"I'm sorry, Clara," she lifted her eyes slightly, just enough to see the headstone's words peaking back. "I'm sorry I couldn't bring you home. You deserved better than that – to have to be at the end of a choice. But…if you're listening…I don't know if I can go through this again. I have to, but I can't tell another boy or girl they're going to be okay when I know it's not always that easy. I'm scared about who I'm going to let down…who I have to watch die."

"Please, Clara, if you can still hear me somewhere," Sam looked upwards at the stars. "Just…keep an eye out for me, okay? You're still my best friend."

Sam let her head slump forward and her body fall down, reclining into the familiar prairie dirt. She curled her fingers about a clump of earth, feeling the granules run along her skin. The night sky spread out like an artist's canvas before her, laden with white oases of stars between the vast seas of darkness. When she squinted hard, Sam believed she could just make out Clara's face.

The familiar dots of the drinking dipper piqued her interest towards the constellation she'd grown up with. Sam traced the cup of the dipper up to the North Star, letting her eyes stay still on Polaris. The star had always brought her home…but now she needed more than that.

_Let me bring someone else home, as well. I can't fail again._

* * *

**The Capitol – Trajan's Residence**

Trajan had hosted some odd visitors to his humble home in the Capitol – little Samantha Parker from District 10 and the eccentric "artist" Salvador Ray had been notables – but the current one had to set a record.

He didn't trust the software that called itself Nihlus – not after its District 10 component, calling itself Cronus, had decided to break off and start organizing rebellious activity that had culminated in the detonation of a bomb several months ago. More importantly, the…_thing_…that sat across the long dining table wasn't even _human_. Trajan hated the notion of speaking to little more than a _computer_, no matter how much like a person it styled itself.

Yet the words the compound intelligence spoke were compelling – provocative, even. It had required a noise-cancelling drone to make sure nobody snooping around would listen in, but it was well worth it so far.

"So where is Rex is being kept?" Trajan pushed into Nihlus's argument, taking a sip from a glass of water.

"In the Detention Sprawl," the enigmatic opponent replied without a touch of emotion. "He is in the deepest level, near the cells that hold the surviving family of former President Snow and the former Gamesmaker, Crane. It is easy to break into once the guards are…distracted."

"So why does he want _my_ help so much?" Trajan countered. Nihlus had explained the survival of Rex and the man's strategizing, planning for a return even while under arrest in prison. It was an interesting theory made even more appealing given Trajan's personal disdain for Octavian – but one could not be too careful in such uncertain times.

"Your Centurious, most specifically," Nihlus raised an eyebrow, as if intrigued that the military leader hadn't seen the connection. "They are loyal not to the Capitol, but to a _man_…to you. That is a powerful force. It ensures that Octavian's subtle machinations cannot manipulate them into…_disastrous_ outcomes. You and I both know the Peacekeepers are an unreliable and weak force of marginal police. They are not soldiers – and it will take muscle to punch a hole in Octavian's grid of paranoia. The move must be made during the Games, when the nation will be distracted. I am sure _you_ can see the value in such."

Trajan kept an eye on Nihlus – what wasn't the intelligence telling him? It all seemed too perfect and easy – breaking Rex out of prison during a high point in the coming Hunger Games, moving about the underground tunnels, and assaulting the Presidential Mansion directly to assassinate Octavian and place the former Head Gamesmaker as his replacement.

"So what's your angle? Why are you so eager to help out Rex?"

"Why?" Nihlus chuckled, his coal-black eyes lighting up with amusement. "Why…why, why…why indeed? You see, Commander, I am more than just the…synthetic compound…you see me as. I have enough…urgh, _human_, within me that I do take a liking of…_games_. My Father will provide me what I want should we succeed – and conveniently, what you and the rest of the nation should want, as well. It is good when our needs converge so, is it not?"

_Bastard_, Trajan thought. He'd certainly concealed something. "Alright. Let's say you're being truthful – I want something in return."

Nihlus smiled, a sadistic thing. "Human, too. Naturally."

"Your rogue element," Trajan hammered an index finger on the table, leaning forward in his seat. "That…_Cronus_, or whatever that part of you that broke off in District 10? I want it exterminated. Dead. Removed – it's a cancer. Whatever you call that bit of you that decided to go off on its own and start spreading chaos, I want it _gone_. That's my stipulation – you agree to that, and you'll have my services."

"Gone?" Nihlus laughed with comedic tone. "Gone? My, Commander…I would have thought _you_ would have found a way to rid yourself of that pestilence by now. But very well…I will eradicate the viroid. It is an inefficient piece of software, too long separated from any center of control. 'Cronus' will be removed before the Cornucopia gong sounds in this year's Games."

Nihlus smiled before continuing: "Of course, Commander…your little, how should I say it, _terrorist_ problem is entirely up to you. I can cut off the head…but not remove the whole."

Trajan bristled at the snipe. "I don't need you to do me any favors, _machine_. Just take out Cronus; I'll handle the rest."

"Of course. As you wish."

Nihlus bowed low, excusing himself with the end of the negotiations. He let the door to Trajan's home slam behind him, walking briskly up the street and into a side alley. He held up an arm in the waning light of day, watching a bulging vein in his muscle retract into his flesh. A surge of color flushed into the skin, removing the pale tone with a darker, yellow-hued veil. Nihlus's skin morphed like a chameleon's, etching new tones and patterns across his body in seconds.

"Oh, Commander," Nihlis whispered to himself, out of range of anyone's hearing. "How little you understand that the best thing about me is just how _much_ of me there is."

He smiled, coughing into a fist as he rotated his skin tones back to their former Caucasian flare. "So we all will say good-bye to Cronus, it seems…" the man paused in his mock soliloquy, adjusting in a sharp, pointed accent to his voice. "…and _hello_ to Thanatos!"

* * *

**District 10**

The morning awoke Sam under a hazy sun. A high, flat cloud cover bathed the day in a dismal setting of pale gray. The dust of early summer pervaded everywhere, blowing weeds down the avenue of the Victor's Village. Sam rubbed at her eyes, pulling her curtains shut to ward off the light. She wanted to do anything but confront the Reaping again – to throw her lot in with guiding another pair of tributes towards salvation or death. More than likely, she knew it would be the latter.

It took incessant knocking on her door from Jake to rouse Sam into a state of awareness. She knew she needed to be up quickly to make the Reaping time of 10 AM – and most children would be up already, braving the anxiety of the moment in fear that they were the elect. This Quarter Quell brought all sorts of new fears into Sam's head. The fact that an entire district could win terrified her more than it reassured her – it promised far more dangers from other tributes outside of the Careers. With everyone potentially able to team up with their district partner, the stakes had been raised drastically.

"_Now_, Sam, c'mon," Jake shouted at her door.

She grunted a bitter acknowledgement, going through the motions of showering and tossing on a simple royal blue dress. She knotted a basic white ribbon in her ponytail, taking a long look in the mirror. The girl staring back wore bruised streaks of stress under her eyes, exhausted from two years of emotional turmoil. She still bore every physical sign of the youthful teen she was, but being dragged between Rex, Octavian, the Games, and everyday life in the Districts had shredded her self-confidence and stability. Her blue eyes shone just a little less vividly; the corners of her mouth hung just a little lower.

Sam broke off from her thoughts as she heard Jake approach: "I'm coming, I'm coming."

She opened the door, catching her brother taking a step back. Jake showed a meager smile as he sized her up, patting her lightly on the shoulder.

"You all ready?" he asked.

"Yeah," Sam said hesitantly. She'd never be ready.

"Alright," Jake replied, moving to grab her in a hug. "You look beautiful. I'll see you when you get back, okay?"

Sam breathed in heavily as she shared the hug, gripping Jake as if it would be the last time. "I'll miss you."

"Me too. Love you, Sammy."

"Love you too, Jake."

Sam let him go, giving just as much of a smile as she could as she left the house. Something about the exchange spooked her – as if she wouldn't be seeing her brother the same again.

The expanded Peacekeeper force had heavily fortified District 10's town square by the time Sam arrived. Two rocket batteries sat atop the Hall of Justice, flanked by machine gun nests and sniper-wielding soldiers across the other rooftops. Thousands of children had already filed into the square, with many more filing in line through the proctors taking blood samples for identification. Flocks of adults and other non-participants already ringed the square, with the huge majority scattered about the periphery of the central streets and dirty avenues. The dust scattered everywhere, kicking up clouds of the stuff that irritated Sam's nose and provoked her into a sneezing fit.

Cheyenne had her left leg slung across her right on stage as Sam climbed up the rear steps to join her. She had figured Dallas wouldn't be showing up.

"Samantha, dear, you look just lovely," Augusta spoke from Sam's left, spooking her in surprise. The Capitol escort wore candy-pink hair with an even more outrageous dress suit of grape purple, transforming the woman into an unsightly collage of offenses to the eye. She puckered her lips in disapproval at Cheyenne, who was hard at work drowning her simmering bitterness in a glass of whiskey and wearing an extremely loose pair of khaki overalls.

"Thank you," Sam tried to smile, managing some sort of feeble grimace instead. "You, uh…look great yourself."

"You're such a shitty liar," Cheyenne belched before Augusta had time to react, drawing a look of disdain from the escort. "Stop it, because you're not going to get any good at it."

"Um…yeah, hm," Sam bit her upper lip, tossing her eyes between the two as Augusta sniffed loudly in disgust and walked towards the microphone to prepare. "Is Dallas…staying back this year?"

"No, unfortunately," Cheyenne bemoaned, taking a long swig. "He wouldn't listen. I made him restrict it to joining us at the train, but…shit, why would you want to come willingly? Praise the President and pass the ammunition, huh?"

"I…have no idea what that's supposed to mean."

"Me neither. Maybe I'm tipsy. What a kick in the nuts."

Sam sat quietly for a moment before posing the question she desperately wanted to know the answer to: "Who…what do you think this Quell is going to do?"

"What's it going to do? Shit on everything, probably," Cheyenne waved the question away. "But nah, I'm sure they'll pick some people who have some sort of ties to somebody. Hell, the President said they were picked ahead of time, right? Gotta be two important people. At least we can get the entire team out this time…but hell, that'll be fun against the likes of District 2 or 4. We're probably fucked. Oh, and then I can't wait to see what kind of nasty twist they'll toss in to shit on everyone in the arena…75th had a bunch of catastrophes if I remember right, and I've heard the 50th was some sort of freakish paradise where everything was deadly. Yeah, I ain't being rosy, but what's the point of that?"

"You don't think we have a chance?"

"No. This is how this stuff works, Sam. Districts like us…we get one or two nice things, like Dallas and I or you, and then we go a generation without anything else. It's like some stupidly bad cycle."

Augusta cut off their conversation further as she began her usual spiel. Sam wiped at her eyes, rubbing away anxiety in an effort to pull herself together. Any of the thousands of eyes that stared up from the square could land in the train in under two hours – but who would it be? Who had the Capitol chosen already to fight to the death?

Who could be that unfortunate?

"Don't you love it?" Cheyenne broke in halfway through the Capitol's annual video presentation. "They say 'a widow, an orphan, a motherless child.' That's supposed to be a consequence of the rebellion. Look out at that lot. You know what I see? Widows, orphans, motherless children. Guess one hundred years didn't change anything."

Sam didn't reply. She fell just as much in that category as any other child did – she hadn't even _known_ her mother. Maybe the Capitol's advanced medical technology could have saved her so long ago, but the primitive medicinal practices out in District 10 could barely keep a man kicked by a cow from dying.

_Just like Dallas now…_

"Ah, outstanding as _always_," Augusta crowed at the end of the video, jostling Sam from her thoughts. "And for this year's _Quarter Quell_ – celebrating the first one _hundred_ years of the Hunger Games and a century of peace – we have two lucky tributes already selected! Mayor Navarro, the slips please…let's begin with the boys this year."

Sam flashed her eyes across the crowd. Little bits of note stuck up here and there – a crying girl of maybe eight, an elderly man leaned up against a wall, a flash of red hair. Wait – read hair? Sam narrowed her eyes as she picked out the owner – the same girl, the same _thing_ that had taken Clay! The girl seemed to make eye contact for just a fraction of a second, a smug grin plastered across her face.

_Maybe she'll get picked. I'd be happy to watch her die_.

A pair of baggy overalls covered an exceptionally tall man towards the front of the square, busy preoccupying himself by picking his fingernails. Sam squinted to figure out who it was before the man's lifting of his head told her all she needed to know. The coal-black eyes spoke of some new horror ready to burst forth from a sadistic smile.

"Here we are!" Augusta drew Sam back to the present and away from Nihlus's presence at the affair. The escort opened up a small slip of paper adorned with black ink, whipping it out before her like some sort of stationary flourish. She coughed to clear her throat before announcing in a loud voice, "Callum Bowie!"

_Oh, God, no._ Sam felt her stomach churning as she watched Cal step slowly towards the stage, his face wearing an expression of shock. Out of anybody she could have picked in District 10, Cal would have been at the very end of the list. He'd suffered enough with Clara's death – did his family need another painful reminder? She looked over towards Nihlus, who had resumed picking his fingernail – this time with a slight nodding of his head, as if counting time to some peppy tune.

_Bastard's enjoying this_.

Cal shot Sam a despondent look as he climbed the steps of the Hall of Justice, ascending the platform and being greeted sharply by Augusta. He mumbled out his name, barely able to speak with the weight of the moment. Sam found her eyes drifting down to her feet – she couldn't stand to look him in the eye; not after the way they had parted months ago.

"Now to the girls!" Augusta moved quickly, as usual ready to hurry away from the dust of District 10. She whipped the second slip in front of her, ripping open the seal with a display of gusto and holding it before her face.

The escort fell silent. She scrunched up her eyes, closing the slip of paper and opening it once more. Sam leaned her head out to try and catch a glimpse, only managing to see Augusta thrusting her tongue into her cheek. Something clearly had gone awry. Sam looked back towards Nihlus, only to see that the enigmatic man was gone.

Augusta cleared her throat again, trying to come to terms with what she read. She paused a final time for effect before reading the second slip with a notable sense of uncertainty: "Samantha Parker."


	10. A Twist of the Knife

The square froze as if suspended in time. Sam felt her mouth go dry, felt her tongue swell up in her mouth and restrict her breathing from a nervous inhalation into a gasping pant. District 10 swirled around her, the brown dust and gray buildings merging into a mash of pressing muck that threatened to drown her in its encroach. Her heart accelerated like a race car, thumping against her heart with all the pounding rhythm of a bass drum.

This wasn't possible! She was a victor; she was exempt from the Reaping! Quell or not, the stipulation across Panem had always been that those who had emerged from the arena alive would never step foot in it again. She would have to be a mentor her whole life, sure, but not a tribute. Not again.

Something had gone wrong. Something wasn't right.

"I…" Sam whimpered, struggling to maintain her composure. Her eyes watered in shock and surprise, confounded by the dramatic turn of events.

Augusta looked dumbfounded. Murmurs of discontent and confusion roiled about the town square below – parents and siblings delighted that their daughters and sisters would not be risking life and limb in the arena this year; those without a stake in the Games fearfully wondering just how far the Capitol's reach extended if a victor could be poached. Who could say if they would be next?

Cheyenne sighed next to Sam, shaking her head as if she had seen this coming: "Better get going."

Sam took a hesitant, shaky step out of her seat, wobbling on her feet as she cleared her head. Disconcerting eyes peered up with mixtures of amusement and horror as she plodded her way over to Augusta. Sam looked up at Cal and tried not to envision what the next week would entail: She would have to team up with him after their falling out, trying desperately to stay alive in order to win as a team against whoever the other districts pulled out. After all, if she could be Reaped, who else could be?

She shook Cal's hand limply at Augusta's weak urging, her body reacting with all the vivacity and energy of a dead fish. Augusta herded the two into the Hall of Justice as fast as she could, hustling through normal procedure to save her dignity before the crowd of questioning faces.

This time around, however, she got no chance to say good-bye. The Peacekeepers moved her and Cal along quickly, pushing the two towards a waiting car. There would be no farewells, no tears and professed love – not as if Sam had much to say good-bye to, anyway. Besides Jake, everyone she cared about in District 10 would be coming with her. Clara had passed, Clay had drawn a line in the sand she could never cross, and her father…there had never been anything there, anyway.

All too quickly, the short car ride to the train station transitioned seamlessly in a blend of blurred brown and gray into a rapidly-departing one-way trip aboard the sleek gray Capitol locomotive. From a small window in the all-too-familiar bedroom Sam had quickly run off to aboard the train, she watched the home that had grown more and more into a prison disappear like the setting sun. It devolved into a tiny insect on the horizon in just minutes, diminishing into a speck amidst the plains before finally even the largest buildings – the town square and the Hall of Justice – squinted away from Sam's view entirely. District 10 had said its good-bye.

Sam flopped backwards on her room's bed, the door to the compartment shut and locked. Cheyenne had let her flee the watching eyes of too many condolences, allowing her to work out her problems on her own. Sam wished she could have had someone by her side – someone to talk to, someone to lay out all the rushing emotions with – but nobody had the time now. Cal would be feeling much the same things, locked in his own battle with emotions as Cheyenne and the far-too-sick Dallas would try and help him eke out survival in the arena over the next week. Sam's fellow mentors – now _her_ mentors, she reminded herself – would be facing their own struggles; Dallas against his rapidly-declining body, Cheyenne in watching the only other victors of District 10 fade away in far different ways.

Yet somehow she would have to – she'd be expected to – work out an alliance with Cal. Sam didn't want to; not after the way he and she had split months ago. She figured he hadn't worked out his own feelings over Clara's death yet, despite it being nearly a year. Trying to get him to cooperate would be a challenge all in itself.

Sam didn't emerge from her room until near dinner. She skipped right past lunch, curled up in the fetal position on the floor of her shower as warm, rose-scented rain pattered off her bare skin. She clutched a handful of violet suds in a limp hand, watching the water dilute the mixture from cleansing soap into bare water. Sam closed her fingers around the remainder of the soap, trying to hold onto the final bubbles as long as she could until the water took away that, too. Soon she was left with just what she started with – nothing but the shower rain that came relentlessly on. The shower head's assault drowned even her tears away in its unwavering consistency, rendering everything the same sterile scent of false innocence.

Augusta's worried knocking at her door eventually woke Sam up from her stupor. She paused to take a glance out her window, looking out to an endless plain of goldenrod. Tossing on a blouse of lilac, Sam summed up the fortitude to open up her door and step out – and ran smack dab into Cal.

"Jeez I'm-" Sam began, expecting Augusta but parlaying her surprise into an awkward stammer. "I-uh, sorry."

Cal took a step back, frowning as he rubbed his shoulder where she'd collided. He'd clearly been dealing with his own emotions, showing her a pair of reddened eyes and mussed hair that had devolved from its earlier fine-tuned state.

"You…uh…goin' to dinner?" Cal posed questioningly, his expression something between suspicion and simmering resentment.

"Yeah."

He grunted an acknowledgement, nodding his head forward and walking off with or without her. Sam followed in his wake, already seeing that abiding by the Capitol's invitation to win as a district would be a far harder challenge than she could have suspected.

Cheyenne looked absolutely miserable in the dining car, accompanied only by Augusta when the two walked in. Dallas hadn't had the strength to go anywhere but directly to his bedroom, leading Sam to wonder just how bad off he would be during the Games. She considered it a minor miracle that he'd even accompanied them in the first place.

"You two look chipper," Cheyenne greeted them snarkily, stewing a bowl of greenish soup in idle waves.

Sam sat down heavily in her chair, dumping a pile of mushy potatoes and vegetables onto her plate without picking about. Cal seemed overwhelmed by the choice of food – something Sam recognized from both Clara's approach the year before and her own first experience to the Capitol's luxuries, although she didn't have the spirit to explain it. Cheyenne didn't say a word, merely content to send evil looks at her own plate.

"Should we watch the coverage of the Reapings?" Augusta broke in after a dozen minutes of tenuous silence, her own expression something between mortification at everyone's moods and relief that she'd left District 10.

"'Reapings,'" Cheyenne spat with an especially-nasty tone. "What a nice word you have for it."

"Well, that's what it is," Augusta sniffed at her.

"Really? I was watching the live stream earlier while everyone dicked about and Dallas was sleeping," Cheyenne retorted. "More like a fuckin' all-star appearance of who's-who of the Games. Excuse me if I'm not really _thrilled_, Augusta."

Sam looked up, caught up in her words. "What's that supposed to mean? Who else is in it?"

Cheyenne sighed, tossing her spoon into her soup with a loud _clank_. "I guess we better watch it, then. You're not gonna have fun, Sam."

She was right. Constantine Flickerman's glittering gold hair and navy-blue silk vest did nothing to put Sam at ease as shots from across Panem flew by the screen. Some of the names Sam didn't know, but Cheyenne filled in every face with some tidbit about a tribute or victor connected to them. District 12 provided a tiny girl, Lily, sporting two blonde braids whose aunt had fostered a budding love story in the 74th Games and had died in the closing act – a connection Sam didn't put together until she thought about it. Her thoughts ran back to her own Victory Tour; to confronting Storm Hawthorne's father, Gale, and his angry rants about the girl he had loved – who had died in the 74th Games.

_Oh_.

District 9 offered up the tough-looking son of their only living victor, Tania. District 1 rang out with a particularly ugly sight for Sam – the younger sister of her final antagonist in the 98th Games, Royal. This girl, Regal, sported the same long, silver hair and vixen-like frame, wearing a beautiful yet arrogantly gaunt face that sneered straight through the screen. Memories of Royal's end at the hands of the squid mutt made Sam shudder in her seat, particularly as Constantine gushed over the exciting finale that had nearly killed her. Her male companion, a brawny sort named Forte, seemed the perfect complement of strength and seduction. District 8 broke convention and offered up an actual _victor_, like Sam – a woman in her mid-fifties who she only vaguely remembered named Cecelia.

Then the familiar names began coming in.

Sam felt a chill flow through her veins as Thresh stepped up to the stage in District 11. His powerful frame spoke of instant contention for the tributes jockeying for victory. He looked bored, almost apathetic – as if he's expected the Capitol to select him, despite being in his early forties. His strong body still looked like that of a man in his prime, well-conditioned for whatever tough fight lay ahead. Sam only hoped he'd be receptive to an alliance, given their few talks the prior year – but she figured she couldn't expect anything definite from the quiet victor.

District 4's two tributes broke Sam's heart. She had figured River would be called forth, but actually seeing the small girl forced up before her district forced a new round of tears from her eyes. She stood with the same stately air Gannet had shone during the Reaping for the 98th Games, calmly accepting the challenge before her without crying or breaking down. The same silence that had met Gannet rang true for River.

What Sam _hadn't_ been expecting was for Firth to join her. Just a year removed from winning, the reigning Hunger Games champion found himself standing up before District 4 yet again. Sam stifled a whimper upon seeing him shaking hands with River, the two tributes holding the exchange just long enough to convey what each thought.

As if things couldn't get worse, District 2 poised the opposite problem to District 4.

The illegitimate daughter of an older victor named Brutus stepped forward for their female tribute – a lanky yet lithe brunette named Artemis. She flexed arms of forged steel, her face one of iron determination and unbreakable will. Despite her being only fifteen, Sam knew she'd be trouble. However, she was far from being the most potent problem out of the masonry district.

Sam could scarcely believe her eyes when the familiar face of the male tribute stepped forward to answer the call. She felt shivers and goosebumps rise across her arms and back as the fixed iron jaw of Vespasian filled the screen, accompanied by _oohs_ and _aahs_ from Constantine and old Claudius Templesmith. He already looked ready for a fight, his wide eyes seemingly staring through the screen to challenge Sam to direct combat.

She'd have to go through him to win, after all.

_And River…and Firth…_

She couldn't do it. She could certainly kill Vespasian if she had the chance to (with a certain glee, to boot), but to kill River and Firth would be unthinkable. Teaming up with Thresh would likely clear her of that problem – _he_ would likely have no trouble knocking off tributes regardless of who they were, given his cool and pragmatic disposition – but she couldn't simply stand by and watch them die.

_You will,_ a strong voice in her head told her. _You can and you will kill them. They're just faceless monsters in a crowd full of obstacles, each domino lined up to be knocked down regardless of identity or prior association. If you want to live, you'll kill any and every one in your path. They are now all your enemies. Do not hesitate; show no mercy. Do what must be done.  
_

Sam wondered where the voice came from. It wasn't Cheyenne or Dallas; wasn't any of the other victors she met or anyone back from District 10. It took her a minute to realize who had spoken so much to her that he'd planted his own thoughts in her head.

_Nihlus_. The same man who had likely drawn her into competition once more had now infiltrated her thoughts with his poisonous rhetoric and incendiary lectures.

She really needed to stop spending so much time around him.

"Well…there you have it," Cheyenne grunted with an ounce of frustration. "Just a whole lot of crap. At least the Careers won't be as thick this year, though, so you might have a little silver lining to a bucket of shit."

Cal looked up, finally speaking: "What do you mean by that? There's still six from the three Career districts."

"Heh," Cheyenne grinned. "Well, Sam's gonna be allying with the District 4 kids – won't she?"

Sam lowered her head, unable to speak up. Cheyenne had dropped the inevitability of the situation right in Cal's unassuming lap – he, and whichever other few tributes in the pool who had less experience regarding the Games, had a succinct disadvantage going into the proceedings.

"Wha-" Cal started, looking between the two victors. His face changed expressions from something between surprised and confused to a look of startled anger. Before Sam could try and assuage his rushing emotions, he set down his dining utensils, stood up abruptly, and left the dining car at top speed

"Cal, wait!" Sam cried to no avail. She let her hands drop limply to the side as he slammed the cabin door behind him, leaving her standing quietly amidst an astonished Augusta and an amused Cheyenne.

"Sounds like you'll have to work that one out yourself," Cheyenne chuckled halfheartedly. "Ah, fuck this year."

* * *

_**A/N: Yeah, it's an all-star game, baby. Sort-of. Thresh, Sam, Cal, Firth, River, Cecelia, Vespasian, Royal's sister, Brutus's (bastard) child, Prim's daughter – we gonna have fun.**_


	11. Truth and Reconciliation

_**A/N: Thanks for the enthusiastic reviews for the last chapter, erybody! I think **_**FindTheWordsToSay**_** won "comment of the chapter" though – ha, got me to laugh. I really appreciate all the feedback you guys have been sending my way through this story, however – it's been good to know where readership stands and prefers. Always helps!**_

* * *

_Knock, knock, knock._

Sam rapped softly on Cal's door, hoping he was still awake. Night had long since settled over whichever forsaken part of Panem the train rode through, casting the compartments in darkness abetted only by the soft glow of interior lighting. A clock on the wall digitally read 10:30 in bright red numerals, giving off an eery technological shine. Sam played with the hem of her blouse as she waited for an answer from the door. Cal hadn't shown his face since dinner, and she could hardly blame him – if she had been in his position, she would have felt betrayed and infuriated by a fellow district tribute's insider advantage and experience. Never mind that this year's Games allowed for an entire district to win – it seemed almost a personal insult to Cal that she would outwardly favor her two friends from District 4.

Cal didn't answer; Sam tried again.

_Knock, knock, kno-_

"What do you want?"

He didn't sound happy to Sam. "Hey, it's me…I just wanted to talk."

"About what?"

"I just wanted to…" Sam paused, wondering what she was trying to do. "We're allies. I mean, we should be allies, since we can work together this year…and…yeah."

"You sure about that? That's not what it sounded like at dinner."

"Can you open the door?"

Cal tossed open his room's sliding door, revealing him adorned in only a pair of black synthetic shorts. Sam had never considered him much of a physical specimen, but standing before her he filled out nicely. Cal's upper torso showed years of work on the Bowie family ranch, sporting well-built pectorals and strong shoulders. Sam moved her eyes down his curved triceps and forearms – maybe he did have a chance, after all.

"Okay. Opened the door – now what are you trying to get at?" Cal moved straight to the point. "That other woman – Cheyenne or whatever our mentor's name is – seemed pretty specific that you didn't want any part of banding with me."

_Here goes nothing_. "No – that's not it," Sam stuttered, trying to phrase things diplomatically. "I'm…look, it'd be stupid not to team up, right? We both want to win, we _can_ both win, so why not?"

"Are you sure you want to win?" he raised an eyebrow. "If you're conflicted with another district, that makes me wonder. Is that what happened with Clara?"

"That's not fair," Sam whispered quietly. "I told you! I tried every way I could to bring her back – she's my best friend, for goodness sake! Still is! It's just…"

Sam leaned against the wall, her eyes tearing up. Cal looked around sheepishly as Sam began to cry, giving up his pretenses and wrapping her up in a hug.

"Alright – I'm sorry. I believe you; I'm just still in shock about everything," he said. "I trust you, Sam."

She nodded, wiping her eyes on her blouse and indicating his room. "Are you sleeping in there? I was gonna go back a bit."

"What?"

"The last two Games - er, the train rides leading up to them, at least – I've slept in the lounge car. You get a full view of the night sky and everything…it's not so claustrophobic like the rooms are. Not so much fancy stuff."

"Sure, why not. Lead the way."

Sam stepped forward down the hall, sliding open the car door and moving down the train with Cal in tow. She paused momentarily in the next compartment, listening to Dallas and Cheyenne talking quietly in the former's room. She hadn't even spoken to Dallas yet, but she figured it would be best to wait. He'd talk to the two when he felt well enough to do so – and she was thankful he'd even managed to make the trip in his condition. No reason to rush things.

The viewing car sparkled with thousands of blinking stars under the night sky. The milky full moon looked far brighter here in the heartland, broken up only by tall stalks of grain jutting out like so many statues in the still night. Little lights winked at the train far in the distance – most likely District 9, with most of its inhabitants falling asleep safely knowing their children were spared the blade of the Hunger Games reaper for one more year.

Sam slumped down on a plush velvet couch, letting her back form to the contours of the soft fabric. Cal sat down next to her a tad too formally; he looked to still be getting a feel for the extravagant surroundings that were so alien against the spartan environment of District 10.

"I owe you an explanation," Sam said, letting her head loll back to get a better view of the open sky above. Her eyes instinctively tracked to the North Star, picking out what little of familiarity she had left. "The boy from District 4 who won last year and got Reaped again…Firth…his dad, Finnick, and I worked hard to get Clara out. When she broke her leg in the flood, well…by the time she and Firth were ready to move after that, there was no time. We had a big group working on getting one of our alliance's members out of the arena, between Cheyenne and Dallas and I to Finnick, the two from District 7, District 3, and District 12's two victors after they had lost early. When the girl from District 2 came in, we had to quickly do something. I tried to get them to send in medicine and some sort of splint for Clara, but I was the only voice going that way. I didn't have the sponsorship money myself to help her."

"In the end, there wasn't much I could do to help Clara that wouldn't get both her and Firth killed," Sam went on, laying bare all the things she wished she could have said earlier. "I had hoped Firth could have killed the girl from 2 and then something…I don't know what…could have happened to save them both, but Clara was killed before any sort of that happened. I don't know. I lay in bed all the time just thinking about what I did; the guilt is killing me little by little. I already let my two allies from my Games down when they both died, and then I let Clara go…what more can I do, right? And if we both win these Games, who else am I going to let down?"

Cal stayed silent through her admission, listening intently before speaking up. "You can't save everyone, Sam. It's the Hunger Games. No matter how hard you try, you have to save yourself at some point, too."

"But it's like my whole world is falling apart," Sam protested, waving her hands in the dark to make her point. "Before all this, I was just a girl in District 10. I was best friends with Clara and Clay. I had my brother. I was…pretty well-off, I guess. Now Clara's gone because I couldn't get her through, the boy and girl I teamed up with in my Games both died, and Firth and River – the two tributes from District 4 – are going to die if you and I are going to get out alive. I don't have anything left. I guess I still have my brother, but that's it. Everything else is gone. Gone. Dead. Whatever. I can't win any way I look at it. Now I'm just a seventeen year-old girl with no future."

Sam felt frustrated as she let the words hang. The Capitol had turned her world completely upside down; had taken every little bit of life she had treasured before the Hunger Games and burned it without a second thought. If they hadn't killed it, they had wrecked it – as Clay proved. Sure, they had never gotten to Jake, but would she ever see him again now that she was bound for yet another arena?

Cal stayed silent just a little longer before speaking up again. "Can I ask you something, Sam?"

"Yeah."

"Are you and Clay…together?"

That caused her to sit up, her eyes meeting Cal's expectant stare. What had caused him to ask that?

"I thought we were," Sam replied truthfully, feeling acid well up in her gut at the mention of his name. "But he never returned the favor. Why are you asking?"

"No reason, really," Cal said quickly, leaning back in the couch. He left the awkward silence that followed hanging momentarily before amending his response. "Actually, I was just thinking…I, uh, remember you in the Hunger Games two years ago and the commentators were really caught with how you and the kid from District 12 seemed to work really well together. I was just figuring…you know…maybe we could try the same thing."

Sam stopped before replying, giving the slightest hint of a smile. "I guess we could try that…yea."

The two left another awkward silence hanging over the viewing car before Sam realized it. She had thought about wanting someone to open up to; someone to spill all the stress-inducing thoughts and feelings that had wrenched her insides for two years to. Yet even going back to the days after Clara's death, she hadn't even given an ounce of thought to Cal; she'd passed him up in favor of so many other opportunities to mope about her situation. But now, with Clay finally and ultimately out of the picture and her heading into a situation that looked like certain death, she finally realized what she had: someone who could listen.

"Can I ask _you_ something, then?" Sam broke up the silence.

"Sure."

"Well…why do you want to team up with me?"

Cal looked at her as if the question was crazy. "You said it yourself…we can both win. Why not?"

Sam looked away, feeling slightly disappointed. "Ah. I guess."

"Well," Cal hurried to clarify his position. "Well…I remember watching you two years ago. District 10, I mean, we never had anybody for years even sniff winning, and when you were fighting towards the end…I guess I thought you really fought with some spirit. Like you had something to fight for when everybody else from our district had just given up and been killed so many times. And compared to all the other tributes; all the cold-hearted kids from District 1 or the thugs from District 2…you were actually willing to show who you were. I dunno, it'd take more than a few lines for me to explain."

"If you can't explain," Sam replied softly. "Then can you do something for me?"

"Sure."

"Stay with me here tonight," Sam said, her voice turning high and quiet. "I don't want to be alone. I'm tired of being alone…of feeling like a ghost."

Cal took no time to consider it, replying by putting his left arm around her shoulders. She let him do so without protest, laying her head down on his chest and letting go of her rampant emotional turmoil. Sam didn't yet know what to make of Cal, the boy she'd forgotten for nearly a year in favor of chasing hopeless things always out of her reach. Tonight, however, she had found just what she needed – someone to make her feel wanted again; someone who rid her of that dreaded loneliness.

Under the stars, Sam quickly fell asleep with a smile across her lips.


	12. Premonition of Salvador

Sam had never cared for the legions of vapid Capitol citizens who made up the tribute preparation teams. Her three had been around since her first run through the arena, although she had by now nearly forgotten their names. Idle chatter about her physical state – from her being too "malnourished" to her ponytail being "too boring" to her eyes being "too vivid a shade of blue" – spun about the room. She mostly ignored it, but she couldn't ignore all the prep team's spider-like fingers running across her body. With her body guarded only by a pale blue paper gown, Sam felt as if she was being invaded by an army of probing digits.

If the prep team had any reminiscent feelings about Sam, they certainly didn't show it. She felt no different on the exam table than she did two years before. The team spoke and chattered as if she were a fresh new tribute ensconced in her first Games.

At least she'd have Agrippa after they were done – he was far better to deal with.

"We have a _treat!" _the mint-haired male of the prep team with orange skin named Venetius squealed with delight as he stamped out Sam's expectation. "In recognition of _all_ the victors in this year's Games, you'll have someone _special_ handling your outfit this year!"

Sam looked up. "Who?"

"Oh, now, can't _spoil it!"_

Venetius and his two aides hurried out of the preparation room, giggling like schoolgirls in gleeful joy. Sam looked around worriedly as she was left to her own devices inside the cold metal room – someone _special_ designing her outfit? What did that mean? They couldn't mean…no…not someone like _Octavian_ or _Nihlus_ could they?

As it turned out, her designer was far worse.

"_La-daa-daa-dee-daaaa-aa_," a high-pitched voice sounded outside. "_Must _adjust the crescendo; up, up, _up_, yes!"

The door to the preparation room flew open, revealing a skinny man sporting a thin mustache. He stood impressively in a pitch-black tuxedo underlined with a white dress shirt and black bow tie. His bleached-white face sagged with a certain limp note to one side, leaving a disturbing asymmetrical visage. Sam unfortunately knew him all too well – Salvador Ray, the Capitol's famous – and eccentric – artist.

The Capitol had contracted _him_?

"Ah! _Sweet_ butterfly, did I _not_ tell you I would turn your supple curves into my canvas?" Salvador exploded with delight as he entered the room, tossing a handful of brightly-colored confetti into the air. "Yes, yes, a _masterpiece_ just waiting to be born – like the moth larva at the coming trumpets of spring!"

Sam clamped her mouth shut as tight as she could as he probed his strange eyes around her body. The contorted tattoos of a blue rose and musical notes across his face did nothing to assuage Sam's terror at being alone with the artist.

"But you must _lose_ this time-rejected garment of _man_," Salvador roared unexpectedly, causing Sam to jump. "Begone, _thing!_"

Without warning he grabbed at Sam, ripping her paper gown off her body and leaving her bare before his eyes. Sam let out a shriek at the aggressive intrusion, gripping her arms around her body in a pitiful attempt at protection.

"But – _what_ are you doing?" Salvador screamed at her defensive gesture. "No! You do _not_ hide the canvas from the _eyes_ of a peering _audience!_"

Sam shrank beneath his words. "I'm sorry! I just…you…"

"Nonsense!" Salvador cut her off, already three thoughts ahead and forgetting the exchange. "This will do _perfectly_, sweet butterfly…now, _come_, come, yes, come with me!"

"Out there?" Sam protested as he ripped the door of the room open again. "But…there are people out there…and I'm naked…"

"_Nonsense!"_ Salvador screamed over her attempts at restoring sanity to the situation. "My creation awaits!"

He grabbed Sam's arm roughly, half-dragging her out the door as she snatched her gown and tied it like a tunic across her waist. She just managed to throw her arm across her chest as Salvador yanked her out into the hall, with numerous Capitol attendants and members of other prep teams staring on. Sam felt heat swarming her face in embarrassment.

"A master waits for no man!" Salvador proclaimed loudly, pulling Sam through the throng of onlookers as he blasted them with rhetoric. "Out of all the talented creators in Panem, why anyone continues to waste time with these artistic _**PIXIES**_ is a question of the very human soul! Where they are not _obtuse_, they are _blasphemous_ with their heathen designs of uninspired _mush!_ I cannot stand to look at yet another artistic _insult!_"

Sam felt stares resting on her from every angle, mixing between accusatory and insulted expressions. Salvador yanked her onwards, hurling open a door to a private room and pulling her inside. Sam just managed to keep her ad-hoc paper tunic on as Salvador threw her onto a brown leather couch, throwing open the room's shads to catch a full glimpse of the sun-lit Capital cityscape.

"_Ah_, and I wake to yet another morning!" Salvador exclaimed, ignoring the time being in the late afternoon. "And I think to myself, sweet butterfly…that I am thankful I am Salvador Ray. Who else better could I be?"

Sam shriveled in the couch as Salvador stepped up before a curtain, grabbing the fabric and clutching it tightly. "And now…I _present_ you my _gift_, sweet butterfly…_my_ _gift!_"

He threw off the curtain, revealing Sam's costume beneath, held up by wire-thin hooks. The skin-tight garment looked like an average cocktail dress, but the star-studded, twinkling pattern striped across its fabric spoke of the same night sky Sam always looked up to in District 10. A circular hole, cut perfectly except for one jagged edge piercing inwards, sat inlaid in the left side of the garment's chest.

"You do not _like_ it?" Salvador jumped to conclusions as Sam was studying the outfit. "Well…you know what? Screw you! Screw every critic! Salvador Ray does not _care_ for you! He does not _need_ you!"

"No!" Sam quickly tried to defuse the eccentric artist. "No – it's perfect! Absolutely!"

"Ah. But where are my manners?" Salvador zoned out of his rage, returning to a state of normalcy – or as normal as he could get. "Then let us _admire_ its design, sweet butterfly! The fabric will _transcend_ your thin curves and softest valleys of skin, painting a world upon your living canvas. See the hole – upon it I paint a heart on your bare skin, a trademark of your _open-heartedness_ that the audience craves! But not just any heart, _no_ – in memorium of your broken love, I illustrate a heart pierced by the sharp dagger of space and time. In its meaningless of a struggle of life and death, the heart _deflates_ upon life's cruel point!"

Sam flinched at Salvador's reference to Storm as he went on. "And you see…you _see?_ The stars do not just _twinkle_ with their effervescent light, _no_, Salvador Ray is _not_ a shallow mote of a soul! The stars of space form the face of a _deity_, staring out in horror at the victor forced to stay behind while her comrades in arms _transcend_ the human condition! It sees the poor victim of the _districts_ shrouded in darkness and it weeps – weeps for enlightenment!"

As Salvador pointed deigns out, Sam looked on with a growing dismay at the costume. The stars did indeed align in a terrifying pattern – into a face of a gaping, screaming man, his eyes wide and hollow, and his mouth aghast in an endless scream of horror.

"I call it…_Burden of the Victor!_" Salvador finished in great fanfare. "The _weight_ you carry as you return to the grounds that ended your virgin pristineness, shrouded by the mists of cloaked unknown - all of it wrapped in a false familiarity of stars!"

Sam stared on in horror as Salvador removed the garment from its rack, grabbing her by the arm and forcing her up. He tore the paper tunic off her again, apparently ignorant to how it even got there in the first place. As Sam blushed in her naked condition, he opened a parting of a sealant at the back of the dress and motioned for her to raise her arms.

"Above your head! You see!" he held the skin-tight dress aloft, his face contorted between ecstasy and artistic rage. "Now stay steady as the butterfly as I attach the first touches of creation; like a great God, I bless you with light!"

He wrapped the dress about Sam's arms and body, his fingers eliciting shooting cold discomfort wherever they touched Sam. She felt goosebumps crawling across every part of her body as he folded the dress across her back, drawing the sealant together to bring the garment together as a single piece. His touch drew far too close to parts of her body that she wished he would stay away from; only his terrifyingly oscillating psychosis held her from speaking up.

"Part one! Part one has firmly laid the foundation!" Salvador shrieked with delight as he stepped back from Sam. "And now for Part 2!"

The strange dress clung far too tightly to Sam's skin, clinging to her with the feel of clammy latex. She struggled adjusting as Salvador re-emerged – holding aloft an array of paints and numerous brushes.

"Now the master works!" he yelled with something approaching nirvana.

Sam only felt dread.

* * *

Hours later, Sam found herself amidst her fellow tributes – some dressed in typical fashion, while every returning victor bound to the arena sported some unusual piece of Salvador-inspired work. The bright light of the Remake Center's holding pen, full of chariots, horses, tributes, and stylists, di nothing to bring out the "best" of Salvador Ray's surrealist design.

"I have to say, Sam," Cal pointed out as the two milled about their chariot, drawn by a pair of dust-colored horses. "That…doesn't really…favor you. Not to be critical."

Cal had lucked out in Sam's eyes. He wore the standard attire of District 10 – a simple cowboy's uniform with golden overlays and silver borders. Compared to her, he looked positively normal. Salvador had finished off Sam's look by painting a limp, curved heart – the organ kind, not the stylized kind – over the hole in her dress, positioned as if speared and deflated by the point of the hole. Her arms had been adorned in different colors – one in a soft white, the other in a bloody crimson. A pair of tight, navy, shiny plastic boots fitted up to her thighs and slipped just below her dress's lowest edge, while Salvador had painted her face a midnight black – with two white streaks, ostensibly shooting stars, emerging from below her eyes like tears.

"I didn't really have a say in it," Sam said, irked by the get-up as she pawed at the dress's suffocating fabric. "I don't even know what this is supposed to be."

"Hm," Cal took the conversation elsewhere. "So…is there anyone here in the tributes we should be looking out for?"

Before Sam had a chance to respond, a voice called out for her.

"By the seas, Sam, I didn't know you were into that kind of thing!"

Firth's amused expression at Sam's attire greeted her annoyed response. "I'm getting rid of it when this is done," Sam replied, frustrated. "So get your laugh in now."

"Well, I could probably afford to see you in that a few more times," Firth laughed, crossing his arms over his chest. "But then again, I'm in this thing."

He wore almost as strange a costume as Sam. Upon an ashen tunic covered in white blotches like snow, human bones had been stenciled in three-dimensionally. Above his stomach, arm and leg bones were arranged into the pattern of a human skull, with the tongue a great building – like the broken skyscrapers of the 99th Hunger Games's arena.

"What is that even supposed to be?" Sam said with an entertained smile. "It's like…"

"Stupid? Yes," Firth finished for her. "Guy was creepy as all get out. Did you have the mustache man designing for you as well?"

"Yea. His name's Salvador."

"His name could be _Sphincter_. He's creepy regardless."

"Oh, wait," Sam interjected. "Firth, this is my district partner, Cal. Cal, this is Firth. He won last year."

Cal and Firth nodded at each other somewhat coldly. Both saw what crossed each other's eyes, with Sam in the middle.

"Firth," a small, neutral voice called out. "What are you – oh. Hi Sam."

River appeared dwarfed by everything else in the room, dressed in a shimmering, tight gown of aqua and silver. Like Cal, her outfit seemed much more appropriate to the typical Hunger Games fare as compared to Salvador Ray's bizarre additions. Strands of coral ribbon ran through River's brown wavy hair, running across her neck and tying into green flanges of fabric that appeared as kelp rising from an ocean setting. Compared to Firth, she looked marvelous in Sam's eyes, the outfit bringing out every ounce of color from her green eyes.

"Hey," Sam said brightly, happy to see another friendly face. "You look great."

"It's a costume," River countered. Idle chat about clothing wasn't her area of expertise. "What is…that thing you're wearing supposed to be?"

Firth laughed uproariously at River's blunt phrasing as Sam explained again. "I don't know. It's creepy. Look at Firth."

"Heh. That's almost as bad," Firth countered. "I'll let you go, Sam. C'mon River."

Almost as soon as the two from District 4 had left, a dark voice appearing out of nowhere spooked Sam enough to cause her to jump. "Enjoying the festivities?"

Sam bolted her head about, catching a full glimpse of the massive man behind her. Shrouded in a pale cloak adorned with curved, deflated fruits and a horrified, melting face, Thresh looked uninterested in the proceedings. Salvador had painted realistic musculature upon his brawny arms and legs, adding a strangely horrific dichotomy with the odd cloak.

"Not really," Sam replied after catching her breath from the startling greeting. "Are you?"

"Always so curious, District 10," Thresh mused, his voice never deviating from a flat note. He stood oddly still, watching the others with keen eyes that missed nothing. "But no. I find these…celebrations…to be a waste of time. I also feel the need to stand apart from the others. I am not here to make friends. I am here to compete in this 'game.'"

He eyed Sam with a strange look, as if he peered through her and stared at something a thousand yards in the distance. "And what are you here for? Why have you been chosen?"

"Probably the same reason as you," Sam answered. "Some people don't like me."

"I do not believe we are here for the same reasons, then," Thresh noted. "I believe it is not that I am disliked, but that no others are even seen from my home. Interesting that we suffer the same trial from different views."

"Why's that interesting?"

"Because it does not matter," Thresh concluded. "Only one wins, as has been the case for one hundred years. That is the meaning of why we are here. I will speak to you when time allows it, District 10 – for now, I believe we are both best suited to accomplishing what we are here for."

Thresh wandered off toward his chariot, leaving Sam perplexed – as she often felt around the victor from District 11. He had no lack of physical prowess, for sure – that made him an instant contender in the Games regardless of the situation. However, it was his perspective on things that always struck Sam that most. Thresh approached events as if detached and seeing them objectively, viewing the world with an impartial judgment that saw things not for how they could be, but for how they were.

She wondered if that would help her in the Games. Sam had certainly considered Thresh to be on her short list of potential allies – but no doubt the imposing man would be committed to winning, as well. She didn't know him well enough to understand whether he would strike her in the back as a Career would, or if he had the type of honor that would preclude such betrayal.

For that matter, she didn't know if she wouldn't do the same.

"Who's that?" Cal's level voice broke Sam out of her thoughts as he strode back to her, watching Thresh leave. "You know him?"

"It's nothing," Sam waved away his question. "C'mon. They'll probably be sending us off soon."

* * *

_**A/N: Good God I have too much fun writing Salvador's dialogue. Only character where I can just go nuts. If you have any suggestions on how to amp up a surrealist psychotic, however, I'll be glad to hear them – designing Sam's outfit was a slightly more painful process than I had envisioned. I can say with confidence that I'll never be a surrealist painter. Fashion is also not my thing.**_


	13. Drawing Battle Lines

_**A/N: To be real wit'chall, there's virtually no way I can differentiate the chariot rides without throwing in something like an asteroid fall or a nuclear attack or an appearance by Darth Revan – which would all be cool, but I don't really want to kill my protagonist like that, so yeah. Gonna accelerate right past the chariot ride…also, apologies for lateness in my recent updates. Gotta quicken things up.**_

_** Moonlight: true enough on Thresh. Only hear him speak once in the HG book, and when it happens, he talks in a rather blunt and choppy way. I just extrapolated 26 years onto that and purged all contractions from his vocabulary for kicks.**_

* * *

President Octavian's odd disappearing act at the chariot parade should have worried Sam, but she felt far more comforted by _not_ having to have seen the coal-eyed powerbroker staring down at her from on high. The night had gone almost as well as she could have hoped – even Vespasian hadn't bothered her.

The next morning, however, introduced Sam right into the thick of her competition.

She and Cal ended up being two of the last contestants to arrive in the Training Center's gymnasium for the first day of training. The black-and-red jumpsuit stitched with the number 10 felt awkward and stiff on Sam as she took her place in the tribute circle, eying the competition. Most looked larger and more physical in person than they had on television or even the night before in all the garish costumes. The tight training uniforms did a masterful job of outlining every male tribute's powerful muscles, every female tribute's slender lethality.

Power began and ended with Vespasian. His uniform, etched with a stylistic and dangerous-looking _2_, only complimented his nightmarish frame. The victor's large metal prosthesis where his lower jaw had been sheared off had always frightened Sam, complete with the two black striped tattoos atop his shaved head. However, the obvious strength advantage he leveraged over the rest of the field became far more obvious in his attire. Sam had never seen a more well-built individual; it was clear then that he hadn't had much difficulty in winning, sans jaw.

Standing beside him wasn't Artemis, although the sinewy tribute from District 2 looked to pose her own problems to Sam. Instead, lithe and dangerous Regal stood arrogantly next to Vespasian, her every contour and fiber of hair reminding Sam all too much of her late sister. She sported the same silver mane had displayed so prominently, carrying herself on shunted, seductive hips in just the same sort of cool confidence that had almost sent Sam to a premature death in the 98th Games.

A bored-looking Capitol attendant named Alexander began things off, his voice dull and flat. "Welcome to your training for the Games. Some of you have heard this before; some of you are new. Around you are two dozen stations teaching skills that will help you survive in the arena. You are free to pursue whatever ends you wish; I highly encourage you each to spend some time at passive survival skills. A common mistake made each year involves tributes dying from latent wounds, infection, or hostile animal and plant life. Learning what to avoid is just as important as learning how to fight."

Sam reflected on the irony of that statement. In her Games, everyone had died from combat. In Clara's, those who hadn't been killed fighting had gone down in some extraordinary way – most notably in District 7's tribute, Willow, who had been broken upon a dock by a tidal wave.

If trends kept up, there would be no point learning anything _but_ weapons skills for the newcomers.

"What are you going to do?" Cal asked Sam as soon as they were released.

She paused on his question, watching Artemis and Regal immediately heading for the archery station while Vespasian headed off towards bladed weapons. As she'd expected, most of the newcomers from the non-Career districts headed off for survival skills – _the rich get richer_. "I'm gonna make some friends," Sam replied to him.

Cal raised an eyebrow. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It's how I won my first Games," Sam shrugged, looking about. "Talk to people. Mention you and I are trying to work together, and see who else you can rope in. If we have more allies, we stand a better chance against the Careers."

She capped off her sentence by casting an eye towards the swords station, where Vespasian busily pointed out every single trainer in the nearby area and ordered them into a combat ring. "I think we might need them."

"You never really answered my question," Cal said. "What are you going to go do?"

Sam frowned, frustrated – she hadn't even thought about what she still needed to learn. She'd barely squeaked by Royal in her Games. Gannet had saved her from being gutted by Hadrian the night her little ally had been killed, and only a quick intervention by Storm had protected her in the night before the finale with the squid mutt. She had plenty to work on – primarily in the combat scene.

"I'm…" Sam glanced about, catching River edging slowly towards the spear-throwing station, where District 1's Forte had taken up position. "Gonna go figure out how to do something productive with a spear. I'll catch you at lunch and we can talk about what we want to do."

She left Cal before he could protest more, bogged down by his inaction. Cal had an infuriating inability to make much of a decision, something that weighed on Sam's mind as she kept her head down. What would that lead to in the arena – assuming they managed to team up and both survived the Cornucopia? She couldn't let him be a liability…

_Watch how you're thinking, Sammy,_ she told herself. _Keep thinking like that and you'll end up just another crazy killer. People, not "liabilities."_

"Hi River," Sam greeted her prospective ally cheerfully, taking her mind off less-friendly topics. "Can I join you?"

"Alright," River looked shell-shocked by the entire process, still not accustomed to being a tribute. Sam had seen the face all too many times; likely she'd had a rough night, just as Clara had gone through after her chariot ride. "How…"

Sam saw what she was watching. Vespasian was putting on a show at the sword station, unloading with his entire prowess on the training staff. He had engaged eight different trainers at once, wielding a long, thin practice blade with a speed and power that seemed impossible. He also didn't have an ounce of care for the welfare of the staff: Vespasian defended and attacked with kicks, punches, and elbows, smashing aside one trainer with a strong lunge while snagging a second's throat in his off-hand. He hurled the unfortunate staff member into a dummy, knocking over several mannequins and following it up by connecting with his practice blade into a third trainer's gut.

The pride of District 2 had quickly captured the attention of the entire gym as he dealt with the few trainers at the station left standing, sweeping his leg low to catch one off balance and knocking out his knee. Vespasian leaped over a blow, raking with his blade on the fallen trainer and connecting an elbow into the windpipe of his latest attacker. He rounded on the last standing trainer, easily knocking away a well-positioned strike and spinning into a thrust. He rammed the practice blade into the trainer's stomach, charging him into a dummy and kicking him off into the ground. Vespasian tossed aside his practice sword with a sense of finality, taking a moment to inspect his path of destruction before idly wandering off towards Regal, Artemis, and the archery station, ignoring the legion of eyes crawling across him.

"How…how do you stop something like that?" River asked with barely a whisper, stricken in awe by Vespasian's fighting prowess.

"Everybody has their weaknesses," Sam weakly tried to re-assure the frightened girl. "We'll just have to find his."

In truth, she had no real answer to River's legitimate concern. Royal, Nyx, Hadrian – the best Careers of the past two Games – had all been blown away by Vespasian's two-minute presentation of raw strength and honed skill. Combined with the other Careers – Artemis and Regal had moved back to what they were doing in shooting lights-out with bows and arrows – he looked unstoppable. Sam would need every ally she could get to even have a chance against them; challenging Vespasian and the Careers in a fair fight would result in a quick, messy death.

River ended up being only the _second_-shortest tribute in the field. The tiny girl from District 12 also had taken a place at the spear-throwing station. A trainer stood next to her, spending all his time talking her through the very notion of actually wielding the weapon, something that seemed far too big for her stature. Forte idly stood nearby, tossing weapon after weapon at the targets and looking bored. Vespasian had shown him up, and his expression reflected that he wanted to be anywhere but standing near the District 2 behemoth.

Sam had already learned well-enough that she had no inherent talent at spear-throwing. Each of her attempts missed wide or short, never even hitting the target. Forte threw up his hands after a while in boredom, trotting off towards the archery station where Vespasian busied himself by talking to Regal. Sam used his departure to try and pin down another ally.

"Hey," she greeted the small girl from District 12 brightly, figuring she wouldn't be getting any better at throwing spears. "You're from District 12, right?"

The girl looked at her with nervous gray eyes, seemingly concerned with whether Sam would immediately kill her. "Yes."

"I'm from District 10," Sam tried to spark conversation and worked towards earning her trust. "I'm Sam. I'm trying to get to know everybody."

"Why?"

_Tough nut to crack_. "I like to meet people. I think it's better to be friends than enemies."

The girl seemed to question this line of reasoning, biting her lip as she worked over whether or not to introduce herself. "I'm Lily. Everdeen."

"Well, it's good to meet you, Lily," Sam said graciously, doing her best to put her at ease. "How do you like the Capitol so far?"

Lily clamped her mouth shut, shrugging slightly before squeaking out "It's big." For whatever signs of being overwhelmed River had shown, this girl exemplified them to epic proportions.

"Everyone dresses funny," River added nearby, surprising Sam greatly as she nailed the second ring on a target with a spear. Her willingness to speak up surprised her even more. "I'm River. District 4."

Whatever River had said, it had worked. Lily perked up with a shy smile at her remark about Capitol attire. "My district's escort wears purple hair."

"Ours has yellow," River looked amused, forgetting about spear-throwing and engaging in the sort of small-talk that she'd avoided with Sam. "I guess they wouldn't look good together."

Sam smiled at the laugh that escaped Lily's lips. The two smallest tributes in the 100th Games had too much alike for Sam not to be happy. She immediately signed down the girl from District 12 as an ally in her mind, letting River handle things as she moseyed off into the center of the gym. Thresh leaned up against a rack of weights, watching her as she approached. He hadn't moved on a single station so far – Sam had thrown glances his way, catching him merely talking with District 8's fellow victor, Cecelia, to wrap up his actions for the morning.

"I do not know why you spend your time trying to reconcile with the weak, District 10," Thresh greeted her succinctly. "For a capable warrior and leader, you appeal to the type of tribute easily killed."

"I only won because of my allies," Sam defended herself. "What, are you trying to do this alone? Against Vespasian?"

Thresh cast a glance over at the archery station, where the champion from District 2 looked far too interested in Regal – or, more specifically, her assets. "The weak fall before the strong. It is the way of nature – but no. None but District 2 can win by themselves. He is a menace. I have correctly presumed you would approach me about a team against him, I believe?"

"You 'presumed?'" Sam asked warily. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You talk to every tribute," Thresh replied simply.

Sam worked that over. "I guess you were right, then. Congratulations."

"Yes. Should we work together, then, I must know which others you wish to include."

"Those two," Sam stuck a thumb behind her in the direction of the spear station, where River kept Lily engaged. "My district partner…and Firth."

"The son of Odair," Thresh scratched his nose, happy with her final selection. "A strong choice. He is capable. Very well, then. I have already taken care of incorporating the male from your district, assuming you and he would be working together."

Over at the fire-making station, Cal and Cecelia looked deep in conversation. Clearly, Thresh had managed to begin working one step ahead of where Sam was – he'd already roped Cecelia into an association of his own, figuring Sam would also be interested and then expanding his borders.

Sam remembered not to underestimate him – beneath that brawny exterior lay a tactical mind.

"You're working with Cecelia?" she asked him. "I don't know anything about her."

"That is not why we establish alliances," Thresh replied. "We do so to find success against District 2 and his web. She is a victor. I have known her for many years. She trusts too easily, as do you. That is all you should need to know."

"That's not all I need to know," Sam felt angry at Thresh's assumed leadership, supplanting a role she felt best suited for her. "What's she good at? How does she help us?"

Thresh looked extremely amused. "You see, District 10? Quickly you accept that the weak have no place in a game of death – yet you continue to court them. I do not understand you."

_Shit_. He was right – she'd dove straight into strategizing, transforming in a snap from the open-hearted girl she was around the likes of River and Lily into the field general she played around Thresh. She couldn't let the dark seed in her soul win; couldn't let circumstance change her from man to monster. "Fine. Forget I asked."

"It was your best question," Thresh interrupted her, studying her reactions. "You are too quick to protect a flawed morality. She is a capable fighter with a polearm and versed in survival skills. She fills a niche I believe you and I do not."

Sam nodded, accepting his judgment. "Are you looking at anybody else?"

"No," Thresh mused. "Every victor will be in our team or that of District 2. There is no other I see as useful, although the other from District 8 will likely join."

"Then just leave Lily, Cal, and River to me if you don't like non-victors," Sam said with a side of spite. She disagreed with Thresh's pragmatic view of black-and-white utility, hoping to salvage what little humanity there was in the Games.

Thresh looked in Lily's direction, contemplating some old memory. "She is the niece of a fallen tribute, is she not?"

"Lily?"

"Yes. One fallen tribute I killed in my time. It would be best if she is not as foolish as her dead kin, I believe. What interesting conflicts you bring up, District 10. We shall see how these developments play out."

* * *

_**A/N: Yeah, I'll get around later to explaining why Lily's surname is still Everdeen, but I'll warn you in advance that it's not a very sentimental note. Lemme know what you think of the tributes.**_


	14. Dark Seed of the Soul

_**A/N: I have a poll now on my profile that'll let me know what you guys have liked so far concerning readership's favorite villainous characters in the series. Helps me orient things in planning the later stories; particularly, what I want to do with a few characters. Lemme know with your votes!**_

* * *

**The Citadel**

A maze of underground tunnels connected the Capitol's sewers, maintenance shafts, trucking roads, and shipping corridors, all displayed in bright blue dots of light upon the holoimager deep in the bowels of the Citadel's Hive. Red dots amidst the plethora of lights marked active Peacekeeper stations, kept up-to-date in real time via nanodrones equipped with collective camera imaging. In black, squads of Inquisitors patrolled in predetermined routes.

"We have about two weeks, give or take what happens over the course of these Games," Trajan stood over the imager, pointing out points of interest to a number of subordinates around the table. "Each of you needs to select a fire team-sized squad to engage the attack with. We can't go in force; too many and we'll be seen all over as an anomaly. We can't let any security know our intention until we start firing."

To Trajan's left, Nero Adronicus – Octavian's chief of staff and sympathizer to Rex – stood with arms crossed as he reviewed the plan. Trajan worried initially about his incorporation in the project, but Rex had courted the high-ranking adviser a year in advance. He would be no security threat - and Nero had a sound mind and formidable fighting prowess to boot.

"There's too many routes," Nero criticized harshly, his eyes flickering over the catacomb-like network of tunnels. "Too many chances for intercept by Inquisitors or Peacekeepers."

"Do you have a better suggestion?" Trajan asked blandly. "If any team is intercepted early, we'll simply have to engage. You and I are responsible for attacking the detention sprawl and proceeding down the clear corridors – it shouldn't be your concern."

"It _is_ my concern," Nero snapped. "If the tunnels are not cleared out well enough in advance, two fire teams aren't going to be enough to get Rex to the Presidential Mansion. We'll be overwhelmed by numbers; not to mention the pods."

"No," Marius Nerva stood to Trajan's right, sticking his index finger into the holographic image. "The pods will not be a problem. I will be coordinating cyber-attacks on local networks from here and will de-activate any pods. Additionally, I'll work to hack any localized drones. It will give you the fire support you need to have a clear route to the Mansion. Any Peacekeepers I do not mop up will be yours to deal with at your discretion."

Trajan looked smug as he moved on, happily watching Nero devolve into silence. "Once we clear to the Mansion, we're going to have to move fast. Estimates say we'll have a five-minute window between breaching and when Octavian will escape the perimeter – but I'd halve that. 150 seconds – if we don't have Octavian by then, we're done."

He looked around before finishing. "And by 'done,' we're talking finality. There are no shades of gray – he dies and Rex takes the throne, or we're through. Six feet under. There is no middle ground."

* * *

**Training Center**

Sam scooped turkey liver and soybeans onto her plate at lunch, walking about the loaded trays of Capitol food and concerning herself more with what she needed in the arena rather than how it tasted. As good as some of the breads and soups looked, she needed food that would build her up now; without some muscle and meat on her bones, she'd be easy prey for the bigger hunters in the arena – not to mention whatever Diocletian Sulla decided to throw into the Games as far as mutts or natural disasters went.

"That…cannot taste good," Firth looked over her shoulder as she poured herself a drink of water, examining the purplish turkey liver with a questioning eye. "Are you trying to prepare for eating bugs, or something?"

"Euch, I don't want to think about that," Sam waved him away good-naturedly. "I had to eat a spider in my Games. It didn't taste good."

"Ah, I bet you didn't learn that at 'Edible Insects,'" Firth mocked the training station with slapstick flair. "Because that's not an insect."

"Oh, is that where you were?" Sam replied. "I was actually doing productive things in the morning."

"You were throwing spears into the floor. That's not really productive."

"Are you spying on me when I'm training?"

Firth laughed, tossing his eyes out at the field of tributes scattered about the gymnasium's cafeteria. "Nah, I was just making sure Thresh wasn't going to take you away to his love dungeon. You two sure do hit it off."

It was Sam's turn to laugh, wiping her eyes at Firth's ridiculous joke. "I don't think they really sponsor that kind of thing here, Firth. I'll have you know I was getting Thresh onto our alliance, and he's bringing the two from District 8 as well."

"_Our _alliance, huh?" Firth replied. "So you think I just want to pair up with you like that? Forcing my hand Sam; I'm gonna have to really think that one over…alright, fine, you win. So, how is our illustrious Thresh?"

"Why don't you go talk to him?" Sam nodded towards where Thresh sat with Cecelia and the smallish boy from District 8. "You were the only one of the allies I wanted he actually seemed happy about, so I don't think he'll bite your head off."

"No, I figure most of us will wait until we're in the arena to do that," Firth shrugged. "Funny, I was going to have lunch with Vespasian, you know? I'm really interested in that metal jaw style he has going on; you think Capitol fashion will take off with that? I bet he could win a number of beauty contests. Also, really friendly guy. He seems nice."

"Would you leave me alone?" Sam playfully rebuked him. "We're supposed to be serious. It's the Hunger Games."

"Alright," Firth said. "I guess Thresh will be happier to see me. Try not to eat River along with whatever that is on your plate."

Sam watched him walk away, holding her tray askew as she fought over her feelings. Why did he make her feel good? He was the kind of boy she'd stayed away from – the ones who knew what they wanted, who were brash and confident to the point of near-recklessness, who shot first and asked questions later. Even Clay hadn't walked around with that kind of attitude back before he'd pushed her away.

_The old Sam would have never given Firth a minute of her time_, she thought. _What's happening to you?_

That wasn't true, however. Storm had wielded many of the same tendencies – the leadership, the confidence, the bold decisiveness and occasional jab of humor. Perhaps she was still working out just _who_ she was – after all, Cal brought up some of the same feelings in her, and he couldn't have been any more different from Firth. Cal was the reliable type; the one who the old Sam would have flocked to in a minute. He was stability where Firth was adventure.

What was a girl to do?

"What'd he want?" Cal asked with the slightest undertone of hostility as Sam joined his table, where River and Lily already sat. "Isn't he a Career?"

"I don't think 'Careers' is really accurate," Sam replied. "This isn't really a normal year."

Cal eyed Firth warily as he took a seat near Thresh. "Last year he sure was."

"He's nice," River added carefully.

"You're from his district. Of course you'll say that."

"Give him a chance, Cal," Sam pleaded. "I want him in our alliance."

"Is this all our alliance?" he raised an eyebrow, looking over at River and Lily, who both sat quietly watching the proceedings. "Not trying to be pessimistic…but I don't think we really have the firepower against that guy from District 2."

Sam glanced over at Vespasian as she filled her mouth with soybeans, catching him returning her gaze. His yellow eyes staring out from above the prosthesis sent a chill down her spine, prompting her to quickly return her attention to Cal. "I don't think any of the rest of us can go up alone against him anyway. It doesn't matter. Besides…Thresh and I want to join together, and he's with the two from District 8, as well. Cecelia's a victor. That gives…eight of us? That's enough to get past him and those others from Districts 1 and 2."

"They let people have _eight_-tribute alliances?" Cal looked skeptical, responding with a low chuckle. "I'll defer to you on that one. If you think it works, alright."

"Well, I kinda wanted your opinion."

"This is just my first time through all this stuff, Sam," Cal shrugged. "You know more than I."

"How are we supposed to all meet up?" River took up the role of critic. "That's a lot of people. There are always people dying at the Cornucopia, too."

Sam inhaled deeply at the question. It was a good question – she hadn't thought about that at all. She'd only met up with Storm and Gannet through extraordinary circumstances that had nearly killed her both times – both of which had occurred after desperately running from the Cornucopia at the start of the Games. Trying to hold on to some coherent plan seemed like a wishful fantasy with the chaos that surrounded the bloodbath.

"We'll…uh," Sam thought it over.

"Why don't we all just go in the direction of the Cornucopia's tip?" River answered her own question. "They have to have a Cornucopia."

_I should listen to you more often_, Sam thought of her small ally. River had a sharp head, no matter what she thought. "You're kinda quiet, Lily. What do you think?"

The small girl from District 12 jumped at her name being called. She ran a hand through one of her blond braids, looking about each of the other three as if they'd judge her response. After a few moments, she simply shrugged, adding an "I dunno."

_Girl's still frightened out of her mind_, Sam thought. Thresh could have been on to something with her – without help, Lily likely wouldn't survive more than a few hours in the arena if she made it out of the Cornucopia bloodbath. Sam resolved to talking to her more; figuring out what she was like – anything to gain her trust and make her feel welcome. River had done a good job at the spear station, but Sam knew anyone she had lingering doubts about would end up causing problems in the arena.

_There you go again_, a small voice in the back of her head spoke up. _"Problems." "Liabilities." They're people. Tributes. Kids. You were the same way when you first met Gannet two years ago, and now you're damning others for being scared in a game of death? Wake up, Sammy. You'll end up being the second coming of Royal if you keep this going_.

The rest of lunch went by quietly. Lily didn't speak another word, and River remained her usual soft-spoken self – leaving Cal and Sam to dominate the entirety of the conversation with idle talk. Sam got up as lunch ended, leaving her tray on the table and figuring out what she would accomplish next. She had to figure out some sort of new weapon proficiency over the next two days – simply being moderately capable with a sword would do her no good if she couldn't get her hands on one. There was no telling what sort of weapon arrangement Diocletian would lay out in his first year. Furthermore, Sam didn't even know if she'd get the _chance_ to grab a weapon with some of the competition.

She didn't get the opportunity to continue her train of thought, either. As she made her way past a pair of tributes from District 7, she felt a strong hand grab her shoulder. Sam turned sharply, expecting Cal or Firth – or even Thresh – but instead meeting a pair of hardened yellow eyes capped by a pair of striped tattoos running up a barren scalp.

"I had to find out for myself," Vespasian growled in his metallic tenor, his face unsettlingly still without a jaw to articulate each word. "What strange bedfellows you make in these Games, Samantha. You think you will achieve victory by leading a band of misfits against _me_? A crippling notion."

Sam shrugged his hand away, feeling flustered as heat shot up from her stomach. "A bunch of _misfits_ helped me win my Games. Even killed your special little tribute."

"Ha!" Vespasian laughed with malice. "Hadrian was _reckless_. A fool. He did not deserve to win. Look around you, Samantha – you see the allies you make? Two tiny girls with no chance to survive. Your district partner, a coward and weak. Thresh? Just the forgotten shell of a man lost in a society that does not accept him. And you think the two from District 8 will save you? You think wrong. Open your eyes, Samantha. Trying to save those who deserve neither life nor victory will not save _yourself_. There is only one victor in the Games."

"I guess you missed the part where a whole district can win," Sam replied nastily. "I don't care what you think of the others. You're a monster."

"Only in your dogmatically-narrow point of view, dear girl," Vespasian's voice slithered across her soul. "But I can see inside you. I see that kernel of anger and frustration that craves an opportunity to arise. You feel weighed down by those you feel obligated to protect, burdened by a _perverse_ sense of justice arising from championing the helpless. Throw off your shackles. Forget those who would only get you killed. Take your place beside _me_ – and you may even bring Odair's son with you. He is the only one who gives you credit. Leave those others to rot as they may – and we will weed out the chaff as only a real alliance can."

Sam gaped in shock. "You want me as an _ally?_"

"Look around you," Vespasian repeated with venomous intent. "I am accompanied now but by a trio of well-trained lemmings. But I see _you_…and what you may so _lack_ in their physical prowess, you sport in a capable mind. The Hunger Games are not a contest of strength or vigor; they are a battle of wills. Don't lie to yourself any longer. _Embrace_ the side of you that craves the power of taking a life, Samantha. Join me."

Sam stumbled over her thoughts, anger flooding her system. "I…I don't want to be allied with _you!_ I don't want anything to _do_ with you! Stay away from me, you monster!"

Vespasian laughed cruelly. "As you wish, Samantha. You'll come to realize the truth in the words I speak. You'll want what I offer."

He turned around, locking eyes with her for just a moment too long before strolling off towards the gymnasium as Sam's stomach flopped over. She hated his incessant glare, his artificial, inhuman voice, his sadism that came out with every word. Yet something more about him – about what he had said, about the points of her he pointed out – scared her far more.

She _did_ want an opportunity to prove herself again – and something about Vespasian riled her up just enough to hunger for action.


	15. Intertwined

The sickeningly salty stench of human sweat seeped out from Dallas's private room in the Training Center as Sam carefully opened the door. She had her reservations about bothering him – she hadn't seen her mentor the entire time, figuring he was too weak. The fact Dallas had come to the Capitol at all for the Games seemed a minor miracle. Still, Sam had to know…she had to have a voice she could trust telling her the answers she needed now more than ever.

A hacking cough caught her off guard as she gently pushed the door open, cracking soft, artificial white light from within. Dallas lay upon the bed within, sheets and covers scattered about. His skin wore a yellow tinge; his eyes half-closed in latent discomfort. His only article of clothing, loose pants that covered his lower body and legs, hung limply from damp skin. He looked up just enough to notice Sam, waving her over with a short motion of his hand.

He'd fallen fast. The last time Sam had seen him, Dallas had still been mostly coherent and able to sit up. Whatever plagued him had accelerated quickly, rendering him a shell of the physical man he'd once been.

"Hey," Sam said quietly, closing the door with nary a whisper. "How are you doing?"

"Don't," Dallas coughed. "Don't worry about me. What are you doing to win?"

"No!" Sam protested. She hadn't stepped into his room to talk about her own trials – not when he withered away on a bed. "I'm fine. I've won before, remember?"

Dallas chuckled once before devolving into another coughing fit, hacking up a glob of yellow mucus into his hand. Sam looked away; it was hard enough seeing what Dallas was going through without _actually_ witnessing the results. It had all happened too fast for Sam; one by one, everyone she knew slowly was plucked away from her. Dallas was simply the latest in a long line that had begun with Gannet and progressed through Storm, Waco, Clara, and even Clay, although she felt no ounce of guilt over the last one.

"I've won, too," Dallas said weakly. "I don't think it's helping me much right now. Nothing to win here…but Sam, come on. Are you and Firth on the same page?"

"Yes!" Sam said a little too enthusiastically, reminding herself after the fact to tone down her feelings. "I mean, yeah. Thresh and I have an…uh, alliance going."

"Yeah? Who's in?"

"Me, Thresh, Cal, Firth, River, the two from District 8, and Lily."

Dallas gave her an odd look from beneath his drooping eyelids. "The little girl from 12?"

"She's nice," Sam defended her choice. "Besides…nobody else is gonna stick up for her. She's like, twelve years old."

"Oh, Sam," Dallas chided. "You're in the wrong line of work. Defending the weak isn't really the mandate of the Hunger Games."

"I can't just let her die!" Sam protested, realizing how ridiculous she sounded in the context of the Games. "That's so…so…"

"Barbaric?" Dallas finished. "Uncivilized? That's the context of this whole thing, Sam. That's why you had to make the choice you did last year. That's why you had to do what you did two years ago."

Sam lowered her head in silence. She didn't want to relive those moments – yet she had no choice, or else her own life would be forfeit. "Dallas? How…I know this is a dumb question, but how am I supposed to kill any of them?"

Dallas sighed, lowering his sickened hands to his side. "These are the same difficult choices, Sam. While I applaud you for sticking up for those who can't help themselves, you have to protect yourself first and foremost. Reach down inside you; find whatever killer instinct you had at the end of your first Games and dig it out. When you're in that arena, you can't give yourself up to feelings and guilt. You've got to do whatever it takes to keep on living."

_The same thing Vespasian pushed_, Sam thought. That same dark kernel of her soul – the seed that hungered for power and dominance, no matter how thickly it was veiled – would be the thing that could keep her thriving. She'd never really realized that small, hidden section of her before – but no doubt it had shown up. It'd been there when she killed Troop so long ago; been there when she emerged from the arena victorious; been there when she let Clara die, cementing herself as District 10's new victor, rather than face competition. As much as she wanted to call herself a good person, some small, dark piece of her thirsted for more.

"But…" Sam replied. "But…I…I can't. I know some of these other tributes, I'm friends with them, confidants. I can't just…_gut_ them and shrug it off."

"Well," Dallas said. "You're going to have to figure out who you love more, Sam. Them…or yourself."

* * *

**Capitol Underground Monitoring Substation**

Watching the underground passages wasn't a glorifying job. Nothing happened for the workers on duty – watching Avoxes ship goods in and out via truck and offloading package after package got tiring fast. Avis Ror, leading manager of the overnight shift, quickly grew bored of things himself. He ignored the cameras that overlooked a full two-and-a-half miles of tunnels, opting instead for basic poker games with his spartan crew. Anything had to be more exciting than routine security – in a place where security was _never_ a real concern.

Still, it paid the bills. Even Capitol citizens had to worry about rent.

"You fucking cheat," Avis snapped at one of his subordinates as he tapped his finger on the board, signifying a call. "Stop trying to look at my fucking cards."

"I already folded. Why would I need to look at your shitty cards?" the other man replied bluntly. "I got nothin', anyway. Bleeding chips over here."

"Probably trying to gain some strategy tips," Avis smirked. "You're a shitty poker player."

"You bet half your stack on a two-pair. You're pretty shitty yourself, boss."

"You know what?" Avis said. "I should go make you watch the fucking cameras. You suck at this game anyway, and now you're cheating."

The other man looked up with a knowing grin. "Yeah, boss, I ain't doing that. If you're really concerned about the bullshit on the cameras, go look yourself."

"Maybe I will! I'll go…see what fun the Avoxes in the tunnels are up to. Gotta be more fun than this dump."

One of Avis's other subordinates smirked with a sarcastic smile. "Let's just kill a couple of 'em off. They don't do anybody good anyway."

"We get liability suits for that," Avis said. "I can't be _that_ lax."

He trotted away from the poker table, crossing a hallway and entering one of the camera rooms. Nothing, as usual – every camera over the entire span showed only the usual litany of supply chain activities going on. Watching Avoxes unpack trucks could put anyone to sleep – indeed, Avis had caught up on a good amount of shuteye already, this early in his night shift. Only the promise of poker winnings had kept him from more.

Something rattled about in the room's vents, however – something that caught the security manager's attention as he turned away from the Capitol tunnels' feeds.

"The hell?" Avis asked nobody in particular, looking up at one of the slatted air vents with a questioning gaze. "Rat?"

He got his answer. A huge figure boomed out of the vents, exploding into Avis as he recoiled in stunned shock. The giant man blew him backwards into a wall, pinning him with excessive force into corrugated steel. Avis's breath flew away, leaving him gasping for air as the dark figure swatted off the room's lights and examined him with acrid breath.

"How interesting," the figure mused with a flat voice. "Octavian chooses to staff his security consoles with incompetents."

Avis choked out a warning, summoning up a measure of courage. "Gah…Get out of here! Security's gonna be here in no time; they'll kill you!"

The huge figure laughed derisively. "Oh, go ahead, kill me. That's the great thing…there's so _much_ of me! And unlike _you_, I am not _bound_ to such a pitiful bag of flesh. Look at that. Nothing that _pathetic_ should be left to wander aimlessly."

Avis gasped in surprise as the giant figure extended a pair of humming blades from his wrist, each vibrating at thousands of times a second for optimal cutting power. The specter hurled his arm forward, digging the weapons deep into Avis's torso as he gaped wordlessly in pain.

"Don't worry," the giant figure soothed Avis as the underground security supervisor started in agony, his life draining with spurting juices from his stomach and intestine. "You're just the first. You won't be remembered. Your life is _wasted_. No purpose, no meaning…just a bloody end, like the rest of your doomed race."

The huge man flipped on the lights, leaving Avis with the sight of a pair of mocking night-black eyes before he sunk into darkness.

* * *

**Training Center, Roof**

Sam had never taken the opportunity to come to the Training Center's open roof, but she figured now was a good a time as any.

The impending start of her second Hunger Games hadn't hit her yet. She hadn't considered the possibility of her own death; of all the horrible things that waited. Meeting others had been her first priority on the first day of training, and she'd done quite well. Still, something about seeing the Capitol at night – for all its open-air glory – sparked something philosophical in her. She hunched her knees up to her chest, leaned back against a concrete pillar on the roof, and watched the lights twinkle – wondering if she'd ever have the chance to do something like this again.

The sound of carefully-placed footsteps behind her woke her from the dream.

"It's just me," she said, already knowing who had come to see her.

"Do you mind company?" Cal's voice resounded, soft amidst the open-air shouts of Capitol crowds below.

"No."

Sam's fellow District 10 tribute settled down next to her, awkwardly sticking one arm near her as she watched the proceedings below. A massive crowd had gathered in the Forum, watching recaps of the victors in this year's Games in their previous wins. Sam could just make out Thresh on a huge screen, considerably younger and fighting for his life in the Games of twenty-six years before.

"You can take my hand," Sam said softly. "I won't bite."

She smiled as she felt his warm fingers intertwine with hers, relaxing in his presence. He wasn't the manliest guy around, but Cal could certainly make her feel secure.

"Just a few more days, huh?" Cal looked out over the Capitol skyline, his words shaky. If he had any sense of awe at the bright sight, he didn't show it. "I guess this is old routine to you."

"It's not," Sam replied. "This isn't easy. I thought I would be safe from this…maybe not from the memories, and maybe not from watching others go in year after year, but at least from the notion that _I_ would have to go back. This isn't supposed to happen."

"I guess we don't really get to pick our fates," Cal mused, looking a good deal older in the orange-lit night air. Every line and contour of his face stood out to Sam in the light, casting strange shadows across tiny valleys and hills of skin. "Did you and Clara come up here last year?"

"No," Sam bemoaned, imagining what couldn't be. "I…Cal, I need to apologize."

"For what?"

"For that. For last year…for what I couldn't do," Sam said. "It's weighing on me too much. I watched too many people die in the arena two years ago, and then I couldn't do anything to keep Clara alive…I don't even know if I deserve to win any more. If I do, what, I just get to watch more kids I try to train die? What's the point of that?"

Sam gave into a tidal wave of emotions that had crept up on her, breaking into tears and turning away. She'd rehashed Clara's fate far too many times for this to be anything new, yet now her failure seemed all the more real. Why did she deserve to keep going on? Why her, rather than someone more deserving of life – someone who hadn't failed others yet?

Cal sighed and pulled on her arm, drawing her closer. "Sam, I didn't really mean any of that stuff I said. I just couldn't deal with her…dying and all. I'm sorry. I never wanted to hurt you."

Sam sniffed loudly and laid her temple down on his thigh, pulling her ponytail with her free hand and letting strings of hair intertwine between her fingers. "I don't wanna be alone anymore, Cal. Not if I have to live or if I have to die. I'm sick of always being alone."

"You won't be," he said quietly. "I'll make sure of it."


	16. Breaking Deep

_**A/N: Inbound long chapter – ie, I didn't want to keep dragging things out.**_

* * *

The throbbing roar of crowd noise thumped through the floorboards beneath the Capitol City Music Hall, shaking the underground staging room Sam stood in. She pulled on a piece of the loose lilac gown that fell about her, thankful to have Agrippa's cautious hands returning to work on her. One more of Salvador's insanely eccentric attires would have driven her to the verge of lunacy; one costume had been more than enough.

"How am I trying to impress with this?" Sam asked out loud, twisting and turning before a floor-to-ceiling manner and frowning at the skinny figure she made. Her long, falling hair – let down for the occasion and curled just enough to catch the eye of wealthy male sponsors – bothered her to the utmost. She didn't know how any of the always-fanciful girls from District 1 could stand letting their hair down as a full-time appearance.

"Innocent," Agrippa said carefully, moving about her with the cautious touch of a craftsman. His tattooed collage of District 10 rippled about his skin where visible, shimmering in the bright, hot lights of the fitting room. "Young. Vulnerable. Honest. You might be a victor, but I can't toss you out to be some ruthless killer. The crowd still knows you as the open-hearted girl who won them over."

Sam smiled at the compliment. "Thank you…but I don't think I really did that."

"You don't give yourself enough credit," Agrippa rebuked, bending down to unfasten a seam. "There's no reason you can't win them over again."

"I don't think my score of six helped."

"The only sponsors who pay attention to scores are the ones who lose their money. The ones who go after favorites know them as soon as they're picked; those who like to apply some brains on sponsorship wait until after the Cornucopia. That kind of thing doesn't matter, Sam. What matters is what you can deliver to their hearts and minds."

Sam frowned as she turned in the mirror again. Whatever Agrippa had done to the outfit, her butt looked too big. "I don't think I'm delivering much of anything tonight."

"Well," Agrippa said. "Then give them something to remember, at least."

All too quickly she found herself rising up through the stage on a cylindrical elevator, the bright lights of the Music Hall burning images of a throbbing crowd into her retinas. Sam immediately felt the heat of the moment – not just the temperature, which did admittedly rise with the lights and swarms of onlookers, but also in a rising nervousness in her gut.

She still hadn't quite accepted that she had returned to the Hunger Games, but the prospect of facing Constantine Flickerman in this kind of interview once more brought the prospect front and center. Tomorrow she could be dead – down in a ditch, or stabbed through the heart with a sword, on her way back to District 10 in a pine box. Sam inhaled slowly to slow her pounding heart, catching her breath in little hiccups on the way.

"…and here they are!" Constantine was in the process of saying as Sam adjusted to the light. "All twenty-four tributes for _you_ here tonight!"

The crowd exploded in ecstasy, roaring with fervor at the arrival of their contestants. Sam squinted against the light and the attention, making her way uneasily over to her specified seat beside Cal. For his first Hunger Games, her co-district partner was handling it well; Cal looked almost bored by the proceedings.

"I don't really get it," Cal said to her as she sat down, barely audible over Constantine's giddy shouts of glee. "Not one bit."

Sam felt her stomach churn – conversation was _not_ what she had in mind. "Can we…save this for later, Cal?"

He held up his hands in surrender as Constantine got underway: "I'm sure you're all _eager_ to meet each and every one of our tributes for our fourth Quarter Quell, ladies and gentlemen…though I think a _few_ are just a little familiar, don't you?"

Sam grumbled at the lame joke that elicited cheers and laughs from a vapid audience. "But I'm getting _ahead_ of myself, folks! Come on, let's get on with the show…I'd like to introduce you all to a _stunningly_ lovely lady from District 1! Now on stage for your enjoyment…_Regal!_"

The silver-haired vixen shined with every sparkle her sister did two years earlier, dressed in a golden dress that barely extended to mid-thigh. A false smile played across her lips, overly exaggerated to the cheers and whistles of an audience with little to imagine.

"Yes! Yes," Constantine took Regal's hand, throwing up a smile of his own. "I have to say, you look _amazing, _young lady."

"You _too_, Constantine," Regal spoke with the same seductive voice Sam had heard before – laced with a poison just below the surface. "I can call you _young_, right?"

"Oh, you're too kind!" Constantine laughed to the audience's favor.

The pair sat down to applause, with Constantine diving into the tough questions at once.

"Now, Regal, your family has some history with the Games."

"We do, Constantine."

"I'm sure I speak for many of us when I say…we all _loved_ your sister's competitive fire two years ago," Constantine said seriously, smoothing his plum hair down with his hand. "How…do you plan on honoring her memory in this year's Games?"

Sam expected her to say one of the usual litany of answers – anything form "I'm going to win" to "I'll be fighting for her." She did _not_ expect Regal's answer.

"I'm going to kill her murderer," Regal smiled sadistically. "I'll make sure to put on a nice show and finish what she started."

The crowd roared in approval as Regal blew a kiss in Sam's direction: "Sorry honey!"

Sam felt her guts drop through her feet. The twinge of sparkling hatred in Regal's eyes spoke of a fire for revenge. She turned her head away from the bright lights, catching just an imperceptible motion from a tribute to her right as she did.

It was Vespasian – ever so slightly shaking his head in disapproval.

"Oh-hoa!" Constantine laughed heartily. "I'm sure we'll ask Samantha's opinion about that when her time is up."

Regal progressed through her interview in much the same way Royal had – with grace, sex, and flair. The two following interviews, Forte and Artemis, gave away nothing interesting; the former responded with the typical District 1 arrogance, although his voice hinted at the slightest bit of exasperation with the process. The latter seemed confused, even for a District 2 tribute; Artemis responded with run-of-the-mill answers to gain an edge of competitiveness and strength, none of which inspired any actual confidence. Her 10 in training certainly hadn't expanded to her ability to field questions.

The following interview would blow her away, regardless: Vespasian was up.

"Now I think we all remember the _thrilling_ Games from almost ten years ago," Constantine crowed to an audience craving excitement. "And we remember our absolutely _unique_ victor – I don't think we've ever seen such visceral thrills! Let's all welcome…_Vespasian_!"

The muscular man strolled to the stage, adorned in a suit of scarlet red that seemed far too formal for his aggressive demeanor. He looked down at Constantine as he was introduced, staring at the host's open hand as if it were some sort of virus. Constantine sat down in a hurry after realizing his guest wasn't in a friendly mood, instantly switching over to his line of questions.

"Alright, Vespasian, I think we can all say that you were _unforgettable_ in your Games," Constantine began.

He likely had a question to follow up that statement, but the man from District 2 cut him off in his inhuman, metal growl. "I was not. No one cared until I emerged from that arena. No one knew me before your doctors bound me to this mask."

Sam saw a first: Constantine stumbled for words. No doubt the host hadn't expected such hostility from the champion of the Capitol's favored district. "Of course, of course," Constnatine tried to rectify the situation. "You are a _victor_, now though, Vespasian – and a damn good one at that. So, tell me…what's your plan for this year's Quell? What do the other tributes have in store?"

"I want to see which of them will break first," Vespasian replied without a hint of subtlety. "The weak…or the strong. I am this Games' arbiter."

"Well…yes," Constantine struggled. "Now, moving on…what would you say to the others, now the night before the Games? Should they…fear you? Envy you? Wish to join you?"

"No, now is not the time for fear, Mister Flickerman. There is plenty of time in the arena for all ranges of release," Vespasian replied succinctly. "Now we are nothing. In the arena, we transform. Only there are we your heroes and villains."

Constantine seemingly gave up – Vespasian was giving him none of the answers he craved, instead stalling him at every path with a well-crafted response that blunted the audience's thirst for sadism. He concluded with Vespasian quickly, moving on to the District 3 tributes with haste. Vespasian walked slowly back to his seat, ignoring the crowd behind him and staring blankly with his yellow eyes at the back wall. He flicked his gaze at Sam for just a moment, holding the stare long enough to convey its meaning.

_Will you be the one to break first, Samantha? _

Sam blanked out through the District 3 tributes, regaining her senses as little River climbed up to shake Constantine's hand. Like Gannet, she sat straight and stately through her interview, downplaying her poor score of a three with charm and grace. What she lacked in confidence she made up with innocent likability; a dignified air that appealed to the crowd's better sensitivities. Sam felt a moment of pride; River hadn't had a chance of scoring a sponsor with her terrible private showing with the Gamesmakers, but maybe her interview could land a few.

Of course, that all meant nothing if Sam's big alliance came together. Any one tribute's sponsors would be split equally.

Firth succeeded brilliantly through his interview, enrapturing the audience with wit, well-placed grins and winks, and humorous seduction that won every single lady in the Capitol. Constantine seemed relieved by his friendliness and overflowing confidence, having shaken off Vespasian's icy responses of earlier and hamming it up now.

The middle districts poured through their usual boring replies; Cecelia produced a likable interview with Constantine that fell back heavily on her victory in the sixties. Sam couldn't even remember a thing the two from District 9 had said before she heard Constantine calling her name.

"Alright folks, winding down the evening and we've got one our prettiest young tributes of recent years," Constantine appealed to Sam's girlish naïveté. "Had her on this stage as a tribute just two years ago, and she's back for more…let's all give a big hand for _Samantha!_"

Sam put on a shy smile as she inched her way forward, her heart ripping at her chest like a jackhammer. She cast a quick look back, catching the eyes of both Cal and Firth – the former wary and worried about his own performance, the latter calm and collected.

_Not the time, Sammy_.

"Welcome, welcome _back_, Samantha," Constantine crowed, grabbing her hand just a little too hard. "Please, take a seat. I've got all sorts of questions but only three minutes, so let me ask you first: what'd you think of our illustrious Regal's proclamation to get you in the arena?"

_Crap_. Sam had never been good at the interviews: "Uh…I…she's a little ahead of herself, I think."

"I forgot how much of a joker you are," Constantine extrapolated, taking the interview drastically in his own direction. "We _all_ are a little ahead of ourselves, aren't we? You scored a five in the last Games and won – so I shouldn't ask you about your score, should I?"

"Probably not," Sam laughed nervously, running a hand through her hair. Little pieces of glitter specked her hand as she let go – _ugh, Agrippa! Glitter?_

"Well, then, straight for the tribute's mouth!" Constantine exclaimed with a hackneyed smile. "Now, Samantha…it's been a trying two Games for you. None of us can forget your _passionate_ story from two years ago – tell me, do you still think about that arena?"

Sam looked down, biting her lip as she tried to find the right words. "I…do. Storm…was a good guy. I loved him. But…he told me to move on, so I have."

"You have?" Constantine pressed. "So, let me ask you, Samantha…what's his name?"

_Oh no!_ This was exactly the situation Sam hadn't wanted to get into – digging deep into the personal details she hadn't yet figured out herself. Firth and Cal stared out from behind her, and saying the wrong thing could provoke just the kind of response she wanted to avoid. "I..." Sam stumbled, waving a hand aimlessly in the place of words. "Constantine, I don't want to embarrass him up here…"

Constantine roared with laughter, inciting the audience to join him in loud guffaws. "Oh, Samantha, the fun we have. I'm afraid that's all the time we have up here…ladies and gentlemen, Samantha Parker from District 10!"

Sam waved weakly to a screaming crowd, turning quickly and hightailing back to her seat. She passed Cal on his way up, meeting his eyes for just a second and seeing the smallest bit of pain. She walked by him quickly, head down and fingers of her left hand playing unconsciously with her hair again. Her eyes caught Firth's glance – amused, and more importantly, interested.

Sam swallowed hard. She'd have an important choice to make before the Games were up.

* * *

**Training Center Roof**

The alpine sun shone with dismally weak light over the Capitol on the day of the Games. Agrippa and Sam emerged from the elevator to the roof, barely having to squint in the soft sunlight. Sam found her hands shaking wildly, the impact of her participation _finally_ hitting her. She had maybe a few hours at most to live, unless she managed to escape the Cornucopia – never a sure thing. Even with little left for her in District 10, she didn't want to die.

Dallas had barely gotten out a good-bye the night before, his voice weak and hands limp. Cheyenne had handled the talking, counseling Sam on her plans as long as she could before finally giving her the one thing she never had – a real, genuine hug. It'd spoken more of Cheyenne's feelings for Sam than any words she had ever said.

Sam had spent the night in Cal's room, desperately hanging on to his arms loosely about her waist. She'd found something deep within her wanting more – but shedding the loneliness that had consumed her for so long had been the least he could have done. Now, however, she was on her own again – Agrippa could only get her to the arena, not into it.

However, even that wasn't to be.

"No escorts," a burly Peacekeeper placed a hand on Agrippa's broad chest as he took a step forward from the elevator. "Just the tribute."

"What?" Agrippa sounded incredulous, trading glances with Sam. "That's never how it's worked."

"It is now," the Peacekeeper snarled. "Step back, sir."

Agrippa held up his hands in defeat, reaching out and grabbing Sam before she could be taken away. "Alright, Sam, looks like we're changing the rules here."

"No!" Sam pleaded, throwing a fearful glance up at the waiting hovercraft, silver and sleek in the sky. "Why can't you come with me?"

"I don't know," her stylist said. "But listen to me, Sam. You're tough. You've done this before; it's nothing new. Every Quarter Quell has some twists, but you're smarter than the others. Find Cal, find your allies. Find what you need to for survival…and don't let your guard down."

"I won't," Sam barely held back the tears. "I'll miss you."

"I'll miss you too," Agrippa pulled back, looking at her with a deep, knowing gaze. "Be strong, girl. Run like the wind. I'll see you when this is done, one way or another."

The Peacekeeper grabbed Sam roughly, dragging her towards the descended hovercraft ladder. She sent one last pleading look in Agrippa's direction, seeing his worried eyes following her all the way. Too soon the ladder locked on, pulling her up with a clenching magnetic field that stuck her in place. Hairs on her limbs and back stood on end as she flew up into the belly of the beast, watching Agrippa, the Capitol, and everything familiar waving goodbye below.

The craft's medical technician gave her no look as he plunged the tracker needle deep into her arm, eliciting a squeak of pain from her throat.

"Ready," the tech reported, lowering the field and letting Sam stumble off the ladder.

"What…what's going on?" Sam protested, still in shock that Agrippa had been forced to stay behind. "Why are you doing this?"

"This way," the tech pushed her forward into the personnel bay – a very _empty_ personnel bay. He shoved her into a jump seat, the only tribute aboard, and strapped her in tightly. "You have thirty minutes."

"Before we get to the arena?"

"In a manner of speaking," the tech said, standing off to the side. The lone Peacekeeper had followed her up, taking a position to her left and holding his rifle askew. He stared at Sam as if she was an animal, beneath his care or worry.

Sam spent the short flight with her head in her hands, her thumbs pressed up against her eyes. How had it come to this? How had she been sent back into the place that haunted her dreams – whether as a tribute or as a mentor? How had she been forced to do battle against people she knew – in some cases, people she cared about?

The final piece of the puzzle had now hit her – although two tributes could win, they had to win as a district. There was no ad-hoc alliance victory.

District 4 or District 10 – one way or another, she'd have to make that choice. The Capitol had killed indecision.

The tech left after twenty-five minutes, rooting around in the hold of the hovercraft before coming back with an armful of garments. He dumped the clothes to the ground, strolling up to Sam and pulling her flight harness off. "Get dressed."

"What?" Sam asked, confused and frightened.

"Get. Dressed."

Sam looked about at the pile of clothes on the floor, taking a glance down at her own loose attire. She'd expected to change fully below the arena…what was this? "But…you…I…I have to change…"

"You have ten minutes to get dressed," the tech said through clenched teeth. "Now you have nine minutes and fifty seconds."

Sam whimpered in a panic, throwing off her clothes and ignoring her near-nudity before the two Capitol personnel. The arena uniform was bland and spartan – a loose-fitting dust-colored jumpsuit made up the majority of her outfit. The two-piece garment stretched from just above her knee all the way up to a low neckline, leaving her forearms and most of her neck exposed. A strange blue vest completed her body suit, fitting snug over the jumpsuit. A pair of synthetic socks and strange, flexible black boots completed her ensemble. The entire thing made Sam feel somewhat exposed – was she headed for _another_ desert?

"Sixty seconds!" called the tech.

"Until what?"

She got her answer. The Peacekeeper threw open a side door, revealing the ground and sky blasting by at hundreds of kilometers per hour. Sam took an involuntary step back from the sight, feeling wind rushing through the hovercraft's hold. A giant, booming noise cut through her shock – _Claudius Templesmith_.

"Welcome, welcome!" Claudius's voice roared. "Let the 100th Hunger Games…_begin_!"

"What?" Sam nearly screamed at the Peacekeeper and tech. "But…what about the prep room?"

"No prep," the tech replied coldly.

"But…are you…how do I get to the Cornucopia?"

"No Cornucopia," the tech said.

Sam swallowed hard. _What was going on_?

Below, lush rainforest ripped past in a blur of green and brown. Giant monoliths and stone temples jutted out at various points in the jungle; gray pyramids and white monuments long since abandoned to the passage of time littered the rainforest canopy. The heat of the day poured in from the outside, eliciting sweat from Sam's bare skin and causing the jumpsuit to stick to her clammy chest. _Everything_ felt wet – the humidity had to be near 100%. Loud, raucous bird calls chirped in from over the jungle, all-too-audible even as the hovercraft zipped by.

"Fifteen seconds!" the tech called out. "Step up."

"To the door?" Sam protested.

The Peacekeeper grabbed her shoulder, forcing her to the open hatch. Sam shrieked in surprise, her face grazed by the rapidly-moving air outside. Her eyelids strained against the pressure, desperate to find respite.

"Five seconds!" the tech shouted. "Go!"

Before Sam had time to figure out what that meant, the ground opened up below her. The jungle broke away, the coast rushing out into open water. Dark, deep ocean rippled with tall waves blown along by strong offshore winds. Choppy whitecaps spoke of an afternoon storm brewing with the cumulonimbus clouds already gathering in the sky.

_She'd be going right into the water_.

"Now!" the tech commanded.

The Peacekeeper planted a kick into Sam's rear, causing her to scream as she rushed forward. The hovercraft abruptly came to a dead stop as Sam stumbled out the hold, feeling barren, humid air hit her face. She tumbled out, flipping end-over-end for twenty feet and watching the hovercraft zip away just as quickly as it had come. Before she had time to think, she made contact with the surf.

_Splash!_

Swirling white water cut around Sam as she fought to control her racing heart. Her lungs screamed for air despite her just going under, surprised into adrenaline-fueled desperation by the dramatic entrance to the tropical arena. She tried her best to swim through the current, but she'd never had to battle these kinds of waves and breakers – certainly not in her small pond back in District 10, and not even close during her brief visit to District 4. This ocean was a demon, and it wanted her body to rest amidst its depths.

The vest wouldn't let her drown that easily. She felt herself rising to the surface, buoyed by whatever material the blue garment was made from. Her head cut through the surface and she gasped for air, sucking down sweet, hot oxygen from the surf. A wave crashed down onto her head, sending her back under the water momentarily.

_No!_ She had to fight, had to get out of this. Sam broke out over the surface again, gulping down breaths and kicking her legs hard. _Nothing_ – the strength of the waves provoked too much of a rip current, dragging her back into each breaker as it swelled and crested upon her head. Much longer and she'd be sucked out to sea, just a dot lost amongst so much open water. Her limbs ached with a burning exhaustion, her lungs screaming for consistent, sustained air.

Suddenly, something powerful snatched her vest. She buckled at the waist, kicking desperately to get away from this new force – was it a hungry animal? Firth had mentioned there were sharks in the ocean…

No – it was worse.

"_This_ is not your grave, Samantha," a baritone voiced laced with metal spoke, unhindered by the tumultuous sea. "You must learn to defeat that which weighs you down."

_Vespasian_. Sam felt fear ripping at her body as she kicked at him, landing a blow on his knee as she scrambled to swim away. "Let me _go!_ Get _away_!"

"Interesting that you fight to escape that which saves you," Vespasian didn't even turn his head, dragging Sam with one hand through the water as he knifed through the surf like a professional swimmer. "That would explain a lot."

Sam relented, saving her energy from an inevitable fight once they reached land. What was he pulling her there for, anyway? Vespasian could have just as easily dragged her underwater, holding her head down until she drowned. It wouldn't have taken much at all; he easily outweighed her by at least a factor of two, sporting massively more muscle and bones thick enough to stack up with small trees. No, he clearly wanted to make her suffer – to kill her on his own terms; to kill her slowly.

She'd have to get away fast; otherwise, she'd be the first casualty of the Quarter Quell.

Vespasian angled towards a rocky outcropping and small sea cave, cutting away from the tangled knot of trees that made up the coast. Sam tensed her muscles – fifteen meters, now ten. As soon as she could stand, she'd have to be fighting. She couldn't let him kill her like this.

Sam was taken back to her first Games, when Royal had her down and the squid mutt had disabled her. She'd had no hope then, merely a miracle hurl of a blade that had given her victory. Now she had no weapon, but she could run.

Still, she liked her odds more in the earlier case. Royal wasn't Vespasian.

"A primitive arena," Vespasian mused in his growling voice, swimming deeper into the inlet as the rocky cave stretched overhead. "Rainforest and jungle. I would presume to guess we are South of Panem's territory entirely."

His feet touched bottom and he stretched out, standing up in the thinning water. Vespasian dragged Sam out by her waist, tossing her up on a rock as he pushed himself up. Sam bounded up at once, drawing on all the remaining strength she had. She coiled an arm to strike, releasing and swinging at Vespasian's head.

He reacted like a bullet. Vespasian seemed to _disappear_, juking below Sam's swing and letting her overextend herself with the missed blow. Quickly he moved in on her carelessness, unloading a quick, powerful punch into her exposed stomach. Sam heaved in pain and surprise, doubling over at the hit. Vespasian followed up with his left hand, smashing her across the temple and bringing in a right hook into her jaw. Sam gasped in pain, falling to the rocky ground with the power of his strike.

Vespasian wasn't done. He grabbed her by her life vest's neckline, dragging her up on her feet and smashing her across the face. Sam shrieked, feeling blood streaming out of her nose and her forehead. The red, sweet liquid trickled into her right eye, forcing her to try and blink it away as Vespasian punched her squarely in the chest. Sam stumbled backwards into a rock wall, her head blurry and dazed from the blows. Vespasian grabbed her again by the collar, picking her up with one powerful hand and throwing her overhand into the ground.

"You _will_ learn to respect your betters," Vespasian sneered through his prosthetic, planting a foot on Sam's heaving chest.

"What do you want with me?" Sam breathed heavily, wiping blood out of her eye. "Just kill me."

"No," Vespasian denied her that satisfaction. "Not yet. You are still too weak in mind and body to kill...once, you and I may have been victors. Now we are just pieces on this game. Come – we have work to do, tributes to hunt."

"No. I won't kill anybody," Sam gasped in pain. "I don't care wh-"

Vespasian lunged down, snatching her by the collar again and hoisting her up to his eye level. Acrid, sickly-sweet breath panted out from his prostethic across her injured face, filling her nostrils with the poisonous scent of a menace.

"But you will," Vespasian said with a sense of finality. "You will kill. And slowly but surely, you will learn to enjoy it. I will _break_ that naïve girl you try to be - and I will find that dark seed in your heart, Samantha."


	17. Choices

"_Quiet_. Listen."

Sam paused behind Vespasian as she followed him through the thick underbrush of the jungle. She'd given up trying to fight him, relenting instead to wait for an opportunity to kill him later or a chance to run. Either way, she couldn't let him control her through the entire Games. Eventually, only of their districts could win; if it came down to just the two of them, she didn't think the odds would be particularly in her favor.

Vespasian had come across a weapons pack opportunely hanging from a low tree branch. Without a Cornucopia to kick things off, the Gamesmakers had seemingly instead scattered weaponry, supplies, and other utilities and tools across the rainforest at various places – letting tribute find one another rather than opening things off with a bang. It preserved the _hunt_, rather than a random splash of blood followed by days of monotony.

It was a far better method to Vespasian.

Their supply canister had included a pack of food and water – which he had forced Sam to tote around on her back – as well as a stout spiked mace and a pair of long, rapier-like swords. Sam had questioned the blades at first, wondering what sort of purpose a stylized stabbing weapon would have in the rainforest – but Vespasian had quickly demonstrated their effectiveness. Small power cells near the bases of their hilts gave the weapons far more credit than first appearances showed: These were no medieval weapons of yore, but high-tech, modern sidearms. Vibration panels inlaid with the long blade let the blades slash effortlessly through whatever the jungle laid in their way, retaining ultra-light construction for an easy flourish while offering maximum stopping power.

Vespasian had been more than happy to give one of the weapons to Sam – in a one-on-one sword fight, even the advantage of a surprise attack wouldn't keep her from a messy death from his skills.

Sam pulled a branch out of her face as she stepped up behind Vespasian. The jungle had torn at her exposed skin in the few hours she'd been tromping about, leaving scratches etching a maze of dirt and dried blood. She figured she looked like a mess to any viewers watching her.

"What?" she asked, annoyed at her companion's frequent stops to pause and listen to the ambient jungle.

"We are on the right path," Vespasian tilted his head up, as if sniffing the air like a wolf. "The tread of unlearned footsteps – female. Uneasy. Come – you will take your first life today."

"If you think I've never killed anyone before," Sam spat. "I did plenty in my first Games."

"No, you did not," Vespasian turned, his eyes amused. "You killed in self-defense only. You have yet to take a life of your own free will; today, you will accomplish that."

"I-"

"Despite your protests, you will _want_ to when the time comes."

Sam closed her mouth, unwilling to argue with a man who looked as if he'd remove her head if she protested further. She felt more like a captive than a companion, trudging along behind Vespasian's well-trained form only out of fear for her life.

_Suppose this is how it must be for any Career with a shred of empathy_…

A long, low rumbling behind the rainforest alerted Sam to something new. She turned her head with a snap, glancing past the accumulating storm clouds in the gray sky. Back two miles from whence she'd come – back to the ocean, back to the rocky cave where Vespasian had beaten submission into her – A giant, shimmering electric blue wall had emerged out of nowhere. Although Sam couldn't see how low it went, she could certainly see its height – the energy wall stretched all the way past the cloud cover, high into the sky before disappearing behind the coming storm.

"A Gamesmaker trick," Vespasian laughed at the new twist. "Let the Quell begin."

"What is that?" Sam piped up, nervous at its intent.

"A force field, tinted in the visible spectrum," her steel-jawed companion replied, his unnerving voice just out of synch with the ambient noise of the jungle. "That we can see it all means the Capitol _wants_ us to see it. They are herding us, Samantha – herding us like the cattle of your district to slaughter. We will see where this road ends – but for now, _we_, not the Capitol, are the killers. Come – there is a clearing ahead, just below that stone temple that emerges from the canopy."

Vespasian looked down at his own red jumpsuit, ripping the sleeves off the outfit out of annoyance. His well-built physique had braved the jungle's assault far better than Sam's; his colossal deltoids and trapezius muscles showed no signs of the bloody scratches across Sam's face and arms. Vespasian pitched the ripped fabric away from him, happy to revel in his intimidating figure as he ripped his way through the foliage.

The jungle quickly parted, diverging from thick, dense plant life and bird calls into a two hundred meter-wide clearing. A giant stone monument stood like an obelisk from the far end, jutting high out over the jungle. Trapezoidal works of masonry – almost like stadium bleachers – stretched along each lateral edge of the rectangular clearing, surrounding a hundred meter-long grassy field, within it a water-filled pond. A small, womanly figure crouched over the pond, unaware of Vespasian and Sam's presence as she collected water.

"Now you will learn," Vespasian muttered to Sam. "But first, I will show you how."

Vespasian strode noisily down the nearest stone bleachers, thumbs stuck in his pants pockets as he approached without a care for safety or stealth. Sam followed behind, afraid that he'd follow and kill her if she made a break for it. No, she'd have to find a more opportune time to run.

"How careless," Vespasian shouted as he reached the bottom of the bleachers, alerting the woman to his presence. "Do you think you are in control here, safe from approach in this great outcropping? You are wrong."

The woman turned, startled and fearful as Sam finally saw who it was.

_Oh no._

Cecelia. One of her presumed allies – and that meant the alliance had never even gotten off the ground yet. She wouldn't be taking part now, most likely – there was nowhere to run, no time to escape before Vespasian would catch and kill her. The brutish man from District 2 would no show no mercy on account of a fellow victor.

"Quaint," Vespasian lifted his chin, exploring the ancient stone clearing with his eyes. "The ancients once held games of death on grounds like these. It seems fitting that we repeat their actions one thousand years later. Don't try to run – I will find you. If you will not defend yourself, then your life is forfeit."

Sam felt the smallest bit of hope rising within her as Cecelia pulled a dagger. At least she wasn't _completely_ helpless at Vespasian's hands.

"You're with him?" Cecelia gasped, finally noticing Sam. "After what we decided on? He's evil!"

"_Necessary_ evil," Vespasian corrected before Sam could defend herself. "Unlike you, Samantha here will soon understand the value of taking a life."

Cecelia steeled herself for his inevitable attack: "You're going to have to kill me, then, Vespasian."

"I'm glad we are on the same page."

Vespasian flung his rapier to the side, approaching Cecelia with open hands. The middle-aged woman from District 8 raised her dagger in response, wielding it aloft at maximum length as her antagonist came forward. As soon as he reached arms-length she lunged forward, aiming straight for his heart.

Like in the cave, Vespasian suddenly wasn't there anymore. He side-stepped Cecelia's strike, smashing an open palm into her weapon wrist. She dropped the dagger in pain, backpedaling as Vespasian kicked the blade away. He had no need for weaponry – his body _was_ a weapon.

"You have only _adopted_ fighting, Cecelia," Vespasian said as he strolled forward to engage again. "I was _gifted_ with it from the womb. And in a broken world that we populate, it is the only skill we _need!_"

He punctuated the last syllable by ducking below a wide swing from Cecelia, unloading with a powerful punch into her armpit. The strike spun her around, allowing him an open kick straight into her tailbone. She flew several feet, landing painfully in a batch of mud. Cecelia struggled in getting up, clearly hurting as Vespasian closed again, the proverbial unstoppable force.

Cecelia rose up and delivered a well-placed hit to his face, smacking her fist straight into Vespasian's jaw prosthetic. He grunted in surprise, giving her the time to follow up into his temple with her other hand. He spun, leaping over a knee-high kick and transforming his rotational energy into a knockout blow. Vespasian's fist landed with a loud _crack!_ into Cecelia's left shoulder, snapping bone and sinew like paper. She stumbled back, her face contorted in pain.

"Take your sword, Samantha," Vespasian commanded, moving in on his victim with relentless slowness. "Your time will soon be here."

Cecelia clutched her shoulder as internal bleeding cropped up, splotching the skin with purplish bruises. "How could you side with him, Sam? He's a killer! He'll kill you just as he has everyone he's met!"

"Still pretending there is value in innocence?" Vespasian spat, catching Cecelia's fist with his hand and throwing it aside. "I will tell you a well-guarded secret before you die: There is no strength in virtue. The world's heroes lie under several feet of _dirt_ like everyone else, fallen after protecting meaningless values that have propped up cowards and tyrants."

"I had no choice!" Sam yelled, paralyzed by a fear of Vespasian's raw aggression and the atrocity she was witness to – and powerless to stop. "I'd be dead if I tried to run!"

"Because only _cowards_ run," Vespasian corrected her, driving a fist into Cecelia's nose. "And cowards, like _victors_, die!"

He hefted Cecelia up by her throat, constricting his fist and eliciting gasps of pain and breathlessness from his victim. Without further ado, Vespasian heaved her above his shoulder and hurled her like a baseball against the bottom row of one of the stone bleachers. Cecelia's ribs snapped on impact, breaking with audible ferocity. Sam whimpered and turned her head, disgusted and horrified by Vespasian's unrestrained brutality.

But Cecelia wasn't dead. She was still conscious, her hand clawing at the ground as her chest heaved back and forth in short, gasping motions. Her breath came weakly, barely noticeable above the agony she clearly endured.

"Well, Samantha," Vespasian turned towards Sam, his eyes alight with barely-controlled rage. "Upon this ground, Cecelia burns. Will you let her die in the pain of a thousand suns, withering on the ground like some shriveling plant? Or will you do what you must – and take her life yourself?"

Sam gaped in shock at her decision. Vespasian had done his part perfectly – he had rendered Cecelia so badly that either Sam would have to kill her now – or she'd be victim to nature, either by time and her internal injuries over several excruciating days, or by some opportunistic animal or disease that found its way to the ancient stone arena.

"You know, don't you?" Vespasian hissed as Sam stood stone-footed. "If you don't kill her now, she'll suffer a horrific end to whatever this jungle – or the Gamesmakers – can conceive. Relish it. _Tell_ yourself you're doing _good_, if you must, but extinguish that last spark of life that clings to her broken chest. Pick up your blade. Plunge it deep into her flesh and blood."

Sam shook as she took the rapier in her hand, nearly dropping it from her quivering grip. She hit the vibration cell, ensuring the weapon would be a kill no matter how badly she struck. Cecelia moved in tiny, pained motions at the side of the arena – there was nothing more Sam could do but end this.

_Plod_. She took a step forward, her foot sinking into a muddy pit. Sam's vision blurred and narrowed, her heart thumping as Vespasian followed her with his eyes. She'd killed four people in her first Games – and killing Laredo had been in an act of mercy, as well. Still, he would have died quickly at the hands of the squid mutt – not like Cecelia. Not like this, where Sam had a choice – where she could have intervened, maybe saved a life.

Now, her choice was gone.

"I'm sorry," Sam whispered as she forced herself up to Cecelia's mangled, quivering body. "I'm so sorry."

Cecelia's fingers wrapped about a pile of dirt, clutching a tiny piece of life as hers withered away. Sam raised her humming rapier, breathing rapidly and hard as she angled the point towards Cecelia's forehead.

"I didn't have a choice," Sam said weakly, a tear dripping down her cheek. "Please forgive me."

She aimed the humming blade just so she wouldn't miss – and brought it down straight into Cecelia's skull.


	18. Hearing Ghosts

_**A/N: This chapter gets psychologically weird about half way through; just letting you all know. Couple graphic images, just 'cuz I check all my disclaimer bases. Also, bigggg thanks for everybody for making this my most-reviewed story! Thanks to you all for your readership; it really means a lot to have people invested in Sam's journey through these stories.  
**_

* * *

"_Huaaah!"_

Sam fell to the ground, hurling up any food left in her stomach in a great vomiting furor. The familiar cannon of death sounded off, its great roar whipping through the thick jungle air. Acidic bile burned the back of Sam's throat as she heaved and hucked, getting the taste of the kill out of her mouth. She didn't even notice as a silent drone flew by, hooking Cecelia's body with a grappling cable and zipping off without a sound. In the blink of an eye, Cecelia was gone – gone by her handiwork.

"You did well," Vespasian nodded behind her, picking up his own blade and sheathing it in his belt. "She was a danger – a threat. You must take a life to justify your own – and now that you have had a taste for blood, I will keep you craving _more_."

Vespasian looked to keep speaking, but stopped with a sudden draw. His head shot up into the air, eyes scanning the perimeter of the ancient stone arena. He reached for his blade as a _whizz_ cut through the air, breaking up the brief quiet of Cecelia's death.

_Thump!_ Sam shot up and rocketed backwards, away from an arrow that had stuck into the ground a meter away from her. She grabbed her blade, looking about for the attacker.

"Foolish girl!" Vespasian shouted, startling Sam before she realized he wasn't talking about her. "Continue your shooting and I will _destroy_ you!"

A dark-haired head poked out from the underbrush a hundred meters away. Sam couldn't make out the tribute, but the excited yell of "_Vespasian!_" told her she wouldn't be welcoming any of her allies to the group.

It was Artemis – and in tow, Regal. The former didn't bother Sam so much as the latter, who looked ready to murder at will. Both held long recurve bows, found somewhere among the maze of the rainforest. The silver-haired vixen from District 1 had her long arrow aimed straight at Sam's chest as she approached with her ally, her face expressing something between confusion and rage at this turn of circumstances.

"_Why_ is _she_ here?" Regal snapped, her fingers twitching on the arrow as Sam held her hands out in surrender. "That _bitch_ is going to die! I'm going to fucking _bleed_ her right here!"

"No!" Vespasian roared, swatting aside Regal's bow with ease as the arrow discharged into the ground. Sam slowly opened her eyes, only just becoming aware that she'd slammed them shut against Regal's verbal assault.

"We don't need her!" Regal snarled angrily at Vespasian. "She's just a fucking girly twig. She'll get snapped in two the moment someone with some balls finds her!"

Without hesitation, Vespasian reared back and unloaded the back of his hand across Regal's face. It was no ordinary slap: The girl flew back into the dirt, propelled by the force of the blow right off her feet. A small yelp of surprise and pain came from Regal's mouth as she hit the ground, sending mud and gunk floating down around her. Vespasian put a foot on her waist, leaning down until his steel jaw was just inches from her eyes.

"I don't believe _you_ make my decisions," he spoke with a quiet voice, his words dangerously low in tone. "Now you listen to _me_, girl. You question me again…and I will separate that pretty little head from your neck. I will personally remove your vocal chords _myself_, leaving you to a quiet death. Do you understand?"

Regal nodded feverishly – not good enough for Vespasian. He pressed down harder with his boot, caving Regal's skin into her waist.

"I will _not_ repeat myself!"

"Yes!" Regal gasped. "Okay, I understand!"

Vespasian picked his boot off her, letting her sit up before delivering a kick to her jaw. Regal snapped back to the muddy earth, a whimper of pain escaping her lips.

Sam couldn't help it: She _enjoyed_ watching Royal's sister, full of rage and eager for revenge, humbled so.

"Get out of the mud," Vespasian said without looking at Regal, his eyes already back towards the dark rainforest. "Soon it will be dark, and hunting in the jungle at night will be impossible. We must make ground on the Gamesmaker force field before nightfall – come. Artemis, you will cover our rear. Samantha, you will stay ahead with me."

* * *

_District 10's days of summer were always something to enjoy. _

_Clay, Clara, and Sam lay out underneath the warm sun beside the wooded pond, shirtless and uncaring if anyone saw. These were the best days – when the hardships suffered by so many in the district could be forgotten and kids could be kids. It didn't matter if Clara and Sam were well-off and lacked those same fears; the chance to truly _enjoy_ life was a rare opportunity here in the backwater districts of Panem. When one had a chance to lay back and relax, one took it._

_Sam couldn't help but smile a little. The water from her swim evaporated off her body in perfect coolness, placing her in the closest to nirvana she could get out on the prairie. To her left, Clara looked asleep – her eyes closed, her long, blonde hair waving ever so softly in a subtle summer wind. Clara never really looked unhappy, but it made Sam feel warm inside to see her enjoying herself so. _

_On her other side lay all of Sam's bubbling emotions. Clay wore a sly grin as his eyes picked their way over lazy cumulus clouds, his hand edging questionably close to Sam's outstretched palm. She wanted him to take it – just take it already, Clay! She'd felt the knots wrapping themselves around her gut for a few years now, never giving up the hope that Clay would make a move. He was a slick guy; bold, confident, more than willing to take the lead. But would he want her – just a stupid fourteen year-old girl out here in District 10?_

"_Is she asleep?" Clay broke Sam out of her thoughts, picking his head up to toss a look over at Clara._

"_I think so," Sam said. Clara's chest rose in content little breaths, suspended in some happy dream. _

"_She misses everything," Clay bemoaned jokingly. "Such a loser."_

_Sam hesitated. Of course he was joking…right? He didn't think SHE was a loser, did he? _

"_She's not a loser," Sam said. "She's just sleepy."_

"_I'm joking, Sam, calm down," Clay laughed. "Good lord. You're so cute when you're flustered."_

_Okay. He was joking – nothing lost. Oh no, now she'd overreacted…_

"_I'm sorry," Sam apologized quickly, brushing a piece of hair away from her eyes. "I'm dumb."_

"_Sam," Clay turned his head towards her, his eyes staring deep into hers. "I'm not going to bite you. You don't have to apologize."_

"_I just…"_

"_I think I know you well enough to know what you mean."_

_Clay rubbed his thumb over the back of Sam's hand, stroking her soft skin with his touch. Little butterflies exploded in Sam's guts, heightening her nerves. She took in a breath excitedly, anxious on what was supposed to happen next. Finally! Clay took her limp hand in his, pulling it closer to him as he propped himself up on his other elbow. _

"_I think I know you well enough to know how you feel, too, Sammy."_

_He rubbed a lock of her hair over her ear, letting his fingers linger for just a moment. She couldn't move her eyes – not now, not so close! _

"_Then I think you're right," Sam replied very quietly, taking in a deep, restrained breath._

_Clay put a hand on the base of her neck, his eyes locked in hers as he responded: "Then why'd you kiss Storm?"_

_Sam shot her head back. "What? How do you know Storm?"_

"_You think the cameras missed anything, Sam?" Clay smiled, his usual confident grin bearing something painful underneath the boyishness. "I saw what you felt. I know you well enough, huh? I saw you fall for him. You would have given anything to have kept him alive. That's why you told him you loved him, right?"_

_Sam's nerves fired on all cylinders, inducing panic: "But…that's not for a year! You're not supposed to know about him yet! I haven't even been Reaped yet! Besides, I told you I loved you when you…when you were kissing…that…that red-headed thing!"_

"_Oh, you're going to blame me for that?" Clay laughed. "Why do you think I did that, Sam? You think I just decided to love her one day?"_

"_Well…"_

"_Get real, Sam," Clara shot up from her other side, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Remember when you didn't give me the slightest bit of a clue on how to survive in the arena? And you're blaming Clay for something?"_

"_That's not true!" Sam said, all kinds of confused. "I helped you as much as I could! I gave you everything I had."_

_Clara laughed derisively. "Please. You were too happy to toss away the keys to Finnick when Firth was on the line. Hell, did you even try to get sponsorships? You were freaking out like a piglet when you had the chance to make big money from Salvador. Could have been me in the 100__th__ Hunger Games, huh? Heck, you wouldn't have even had to go back in the arena then!"_

"_Look at it objectively, Sam," Clay lowered his head, his eyes unbreaking. "You did kill her."_

"_No! I-"_

"_Sam," Clara interrupted. "You did. Just face it. You killed me."_

_Heat flooded Sam's veins as the sun broke apart, filling the sky with blotches of red that incinerated the clouds. The trees burst into flames, throwing ashes about the little wooded pond. "I didn't kill you! Nyx killed you!"_

"_You were responsible," another voice came._

_Gannet climbed out of the lake, her legs hollowed down to the bone. Her entrails dragged out of the grievous injury Hadrian's halberd had inflicted, trailing her like a necrotic puppy. Her heart-shaped face showed disappointment in Sam – sorrow that she'd trusted her._

"_Just like you were responsible for my death," Gannet sighed, letting her arms flop to her side. "Now you're going to kill my sister, too. You're going to kill little River. She doesn't deserve that. How many of my family have to die? Does baby Brooke have to die too for you to be satisfied?"_

"_Gannet!" Sam pleaded, tears filling her eyes. "I would have done anything for you!"_

"_Apparently not," Gannet mused, picking up her intestines and looking at them mournfully. "I hope River doesn't die like this. It hurt, Sam. It hurt a lot, and that's the last feeling I'll ever know. And do you know what comes next?"_

_Sam said nothing, horrified as Gannet continued. "There's nothing. Just black…inky, dark, black. It's all empty. Meaningless. Purposeless."_

"_Purposeless, just like all you pitiful humans," Nihlus flipped out of one of the burning trees, his coal-like eyes transformed into burning diamonds. "But you have really set a record, Miss Parker. What a path of devastation you have carved. It's beautiful."_

"_Why d'ya think I never loved ya'?" Sam's father stood near Nihlus, chewing tobacco between his teeth. He spat on the ground, wiping his mouth with his sleeve as he sized her up. "Yer dumb bitch of a mother could have just given me another son. I didn't ask for no girl. The dawgs were better to me than you."_

"_And did you ever really love me, Sam? I can understand your dad's disappointment," Storm walked up beside Gannet, putting his arm around the small girl's shoulder as he let a stream of blood flow from his death wound. "Heck, did you love Clay here the whole time you said you loved me? And now you're so eager to go love Cal and Firth? You still can't make up your mind. What did I ever see in you? Did I think you were sincere? Because you're clearly not."_

"_No!" Sam pleaded, tears running like rivers from her eyes. "No! I didn't mean any of this!"_

"_Well, you got it," Clay laughed. "So you see, Sam…when I went and screwed Abilene, it really wasn't that bad. You made me do it, after all. This is all your fault. You did it, not me."_

"_Gannet and I have to go back," Storm nodded to the small girl. "Being dead has its disadvantages. Are you coming with us, Clara?"_

"_Yeah," the blonde-haired girl said. "Yeah, better than sticking around here. Thanks a lot, Sammy. Thanks for everything…thanks for killing me."_

_Sam's father spat on the ground again as the three left, looking at her disapprovingly. "I don't even wanna see yer face again, dumb girl."_

"_And I'm sure I'll be seeing you," Nihlus smiled gleefully. "I, on the other hand, just can't get enough of you!"_

_Clay finally stood alone, letting the ashes from the red sky fall into his open hand. He smiled up at Sam with his usual grin, now implying something much more painful._

"_Did you ever think of what we could have been, Sammy?" he said. "You and I, taking on life together? Did you think I'd just forget about you, even after Abilene? No. Nope. But you'd thrown all that away long before; one kiss of fame and suddenly you transformed from that sweet little girl with the ribbons in her hair into some Capitol monster. It's just really a shame you let it all come to this."_

"_Clay, wait," Sam pleaded, teary streaks of black littered across her reddening cheeks. "Don't do this. Let me…let me make it up. I swear I'll be a good girl. I swear I'll love you."_

_Clay laughed. "You'll love me…and Firth and Cal, huh? Maybe you can do the world a favor and just die, Sam. That would end this mess once and for all. That would make things right."_

_Clay exploded into ash, the pieces of him colliding hard with Sam. His hand – the one that had lit such excitement in her heart – slammed into her neck, pricking her just enough to be painful._

"And I'll be happy to be the one who kills you."

Sam's eyes snapped open as something large and woolen filled her mouth. She struggled against a heavy weight as she saw what was happening.

Regal sat atop her under a dark jungle sky, a knife pressed against Sam's throat. She'd stuffed one of her socks hard into Sam's mouth, silencing her from calling out to Vespasian. She went for Sam's rapier, picking up the weapon and swishing it over her head as she kept her knees on Sam's shoulders.

"Such a pretty sword," Regal said. "Maybe this will be what I kill you with. Get up, bitch. I'm going to take you out into the dark forest…and I'm going to cut you up just like Royal. Nobody's even going to recognize you by the time I'm finished. No stupid squid mutt's going to be able to top this."


	19. Skirting Fate Again

_**A/N: For coolness's sake, I'm, uh, kinda defying the laws of physics in this chapter with a weapon. C'mon, we all get bored with the usual swords, knives, bows, and stuff…and I figure if the Capitol has hand-waved forcefields, it's time to crank things up.**_

* * *

"Get going. I don't have all night to wait until Vespasian wakes up."

Regal finished tying Sam's hands behind her back with a thin piece of cord, giving her a kick in the left knee to prompt her forward. Sam choked and coughed into the sock lodged in her mouth, her cries of fear stifled before they ever reached open air. She winced in pain as she wriggled her hands against the knots about her wrists, cinched tight by Regal's deft fingers. She'd gotten herself into a serious predicament now – and she had no way to get to help, even if that meant Vespasian.

_How had it come to this?_ One moment chaotic dreams had flooded Sam's subconscious with terrifying images…and the next moment reality had followed suit. Was Vespasian testing her? Trying to see if she could outwit this idiotic girl from District 1, hell-bent on revenge for the death of her dead sister at Rex's hands?

_How can I outwit her when she's tied me up?_

"I said go," Regal snarled softly, kicking Sam in the calf and pointing towards the dark jungle. "Hurry up and maybe I'll kill you a little faster when I'm ready."

With her own blade at her back and little choice in the matter, Sam took a tentative step towards the jungle. Nearby, Artemis flipped over onto her side on the jungle floor, mumbling something in her sleep. Sam looked back hopefully, praying for rescue – but none would come. Not from here. Not from the sleeping girl from District 2…or from wherever Vespasian was.

_Was he still awake, waiting out in the trees?_ Sam hated herself for hoping Vespasian would come and bail her out…but what else was there? It was a pipe dream to imagine Firth or Cal crashing out of the jungle, facing almost certain death against all these Careers to free her.

The blackened trees claustrophobically closed in around Sam as she stepped into the realm of the night. Regal grabbed the back of her neck with her free hand, the other keeping the tip of the rapier squarely to the small of her back. Running – even if she had been free to do so – seemed like an entirely suicidal option. Sam had little chance to fight in this state. Possibly she could play dead – hope Regal landed a nonfatal blow – but doing so without the girl noticing the lack of a cannon shot seemed insane.

No, this looked like the end.

_Maybe you could do the world a favor and just die_, Clay's ethereal voice from Sam's dreams lashed out at her. How funny that he could get his wish…

"Let's go a little further; then we can stop," Regal hissed in her ear after a short time, spittle landing on Sam's lobe. "That's about two hundred yards. Vespasian won't hear that in his sleep; not through all this jungle. Not with all these damn bugs."

Regal came to a stop before a thick banyan tree, forcing her hand down hard on Sam's neck. "Here. We'll do it here…get down on your knees, bitch."

She pushed Sam to the ground, relishing her impending kill as she ran a hand over Sam's forehead and ran her fingers under her hair. "I can see why the commentators always said you were so _sweet_…so incorruptible. It'll be such a shame that you die here, huh?"

Sam whimpered into the sock, trying to get out a plea for her life. Pride be damned; she didn't want to die _here_; not like _this. _Not in this dark, dank jungle – surrounded by swarming, squeaking bugs and shrieking birds in the thick night. This was no way to die.

_At least Gannet, Storm, and Clara had people who cared about them there when they died…_

Regal strode before Sam, her silver hair shining with a black sheen in the humid dark. Her long face looked especially vicious in the low light, with small shadows pitted beneath her high cheekbones.

"Well, sweetie," Regal tossed the rapier to the ground, pulling her knife and sizing Sam up. "You ready to begin? What do you think the fans would like me to cut out of you first?"

Sam grunted inaudibly into the sock, causing Regal's eyes to shine with a spark of inspiration. "Great idea, babe! I'll cut out your tongue, just like an Avox…how symbolic. Anything you'd like to say to the audience before I start?"

She plunged her fingers into Sam's mouth, yanking the sock out and looking down at her expectantly.

"I'm sorry!" Sam cried out loudly, hoping to attract attention. "I didn't kill Royal, but I didn't even get to know her! It was the Hunger Games, how can you blame me for that?"

Her eyes caught something just slightly wrong with the picture in front of her. Back in the dark jungle, some small shadow moved – _darted _– behind of the big trees Regal stood before. It couldn't have been Vespasian; he had a habit of dodging quickly in fights, but he didn't move like that.

Probably an animal. Nobody would save her now.

"Oh, _I_ can blame you," Regal snarled, hucking a blob of spit squarely in Sam's eye. "She'd be alive if you hadn't stepped in and stabbed her in the back as she fought off the mutt. It's _your_ fucking fault, and now _I_ am going to make up for it."

She bent down in front of Sam, holding the knife out and showing a sadistic smile. "Open your mouth."

Sam clamped her lips shut tightly, prompting Regal to snatch her nose with her free hand and clench her nostrils shut. Sam knew it was only a matter of time before her body would force her to take a breath, giving Regal the chance she needed to begin her sadistic spree. It was over…no chance of help, no rescue, and no miracle. Whatever was out there watching had to be an animal or some stupid Gamesmaker laugh, watching her die so helplessly.

"The hell is that?" Regal snapped her head around. _There was something back there…_

With a loud _whizz_, something came flying out of the trees. A flash of silver caught Regal in the right shoulder, spinning her about and carrying her to the ground with force. Sam recoiled – a long, sharp harpoon jutted out of the District 1 tribute, the barbed head having cleaved a messy hole straight through flesh and bone. White sinew gaped from the wound as black blood, colorless in the dark night, leaked out in a rush.

"Sam!"

Out of the jungle came neither Vespasian nor Firth nor Cal, but River. She clutched a long, hollow tube in her hands, busy in the process of sticking a second barbed harpoon down its front end. Her brown hair was a mess, coated in dirt and mud that made her look like a wild animal hurtling from the rainforest depths. She finished packing the javelin into her weapon, keeping the barrel trained on Regal's writhing figure as she approached.

"River!" Sam exclaimed, fighting to get free. "_Thank_ you! Help me to get loose – please!"

River ran up, snatching up the fallen rapier and hitting the vibration cell as Regal struggled against her impalement injury. She slashed the blade down between Sam's hands, cutting the cord free in one quick swing.

"Take this, I'm no good at these," River said, tossing the sword to Sam as she rubbed her wrists. "Let's go before she-"

"_Rrgh_," Regal snarled, ripping the harpoon out of her shoulder and hefting it like a javelin. "Little bitch from District 4! I'm gonna-"

_Bam!_ Regal's body exploded in two as something _huge_ plowed through the jungle. A hellish mutt – seemingly made of bits and pieces of _animal stuff_ thrown together at will to create a quadruped – trotted over Regal's newly-separated upper body, stepping on her shocked face without noticing. The beast wore a mottled, rough sheen of brown and black, rising and falling with hardened pieces of skin and keratin. Two giant rear legs sported huge veins poking through the hardened epidermis, dwarfing a pair of smaller – yet still massive – upper legs. A brawny torso slouched forward into an indecipherable head, sporting so many cancerous blobs and pulpy tumors that it was impossible to determine where any eyes or nostrils were.

Two things were very clear – it had a gaping mouth full of dagger-sharp teeth, and it was _angry_.

"Run!" Sam yelled, pushing River towards the dark forest. "Go! Into the trees!"

River's eyes bulged as she backpedaled quickly, triggering off another harpoon shot. _Whoompf!_ The javelin cut through the air like a bullet, just narrowly missing the grotesque mutt's head and burrowing deep into its rear leg. The beast let out a ghoulish howl as it struggled to remove the weapon, lashing at its wounded leg with its mouth.

_Riiiiiip!_ Sam swiveled her head around as she hit the tree line, her eyes catching the monstrosity in the action of ridding itself of the spear. Rather than simply bite the harpoon out, the mutt _tore off its entire leg_ in anger, throwing the ruined limb away like trash and bounding forward on three limbs, its only remaining rear limb hurtling it forward like some Satanic groundhog.

_Oh God_.

Sam had hoped the trees would hold back its impressive size, but they only slowed it down. The mutt shredded smaller saplings like mere nuisances, smashing into larger trunks and ripping its way past them with unbridled animal ferocity. Sam caught the sight of Regal's silver hair disappearing into the gaping maw of the creature's mouth before she turned around, running, scrambling, sprinting for her life.

River's feet scampered frantically through the underbrush ahead. Leaves and twigs tore past Sam's face as she hurtled past trees, knowing she'd be dead in seconds if she lost her footing. The sound of uncontrolled death roared and screeched with inhuman sounds of suffering behind her, enraged at the prey it craved causing it so much trouble.

_Pow!_ A small tree splintered into missiles behind Sam as the mutt dove through a trunk. She had to find somewhere fast; if this chase kept up much longer, she and River would tire out – something that their unearthly pursuer seemed in no danger of falling to. Forget Regal; this kind of death would be _far_ worse. Seeing her would-be executioner blasted in half spiked Sam's fear to new highs. She didn't want to end up in a box going home, but headed home in _small meaty chunks_ would be horrific.

"Drop ahead!" Sam spotted the ground giving way fifty meters to the right, shouting it out for River's attention. "I'm right behind you, River!"

Her rescuer veered to the right, moving at top speed towards the drop. River halted abruptly upon reaching it, yelping in surprise at what she'd found: "It's a rocky gorge, Sam!"

_No choice, _Sam thought. It was take the chance or end up ripped to shreds by the onrushing mutt.

Sam sprinted the last distance without stopping, slowing only to grab the petrified River in a tight embrace as she took off from the ledge. The gorge was much smaller than she'd figured – only about ten feet across, a width Sam barely cleared as she jumped. The mutt slammed into the rock behind her, sending a blast of stone ripping cuts into her back and shoulders. Sam closed her eyes as air flew by, hoping the landing wouldn't be fatal.

_Sploosh!_ Fresh water burst about her, shocking her from the heat of the chase into a remarkably cool explosion. Sam kicked to the surface, surrounded in darkness as she exhaled sharply and drew in a refreshing gulp of air. Thirty feet above, the mutt ripped at the rocky outcropping. Unable to squeeze in, it angrily clawed at the stone ravine and roared at Sam.

_Just missed death again, Sammy_.

River sprayed out a mouthful of water next to her, looking up as the beast gave one final smack against the stone before it stalked away, howling long moans of rage towards the two girls.

"Well," River turned her head towards Sam, the green of her eyes just visible in what little light seeped into the cavern. "I guess that's that, then."


	20. The Eyes of Madness

_**A/N: Don't worry team Firth, he'll be back before too long! Absence makes the heart grow fonder, right...and so does personal horror, ya?**_

* * *

"Oh, River!" Sam let her emotions out, sweeping up her smaller ally in a big hug. "_Thank_ you! I was…I was gonna be…"

"Sam, it's okay," River separated herself from the hug, embarrassed for the attention. "Anybody woulda done the same thing."

_Probably not anybody_, Sam thought. River had a special spark in her – one she wasn't ready to let go of that easily. Why _had_ she bailed her out of certain death at Regal's hands? It was easy to say River had done it to off one of the tougher competitors in an already-stacked competition…but if that was the case, why not wait until Sam had been killed before doing so?

Maybe some people did care about her.

Sam looked about the cavernous ravine, finding her footing on a jutting piece of rock. The water in the cave dipped down to a depth of nearly twenty feet in parts, darkened by the lack of ambient light. Only a sliver of haunting illumination shined into the darkness from above; without it, River and the rest of the environment would have been shrouded in a cloak of darkness. Even so, things were still dark; Sam could barely see ten feet in front of her face. Anything could be lurking down the passage…however long it ran.

"We should try to get out of here," Sam rubbed her hands on her soaked jumpsuit. "I don't want to think about what's down here."

River stepped carefully forward through the water, hugging the side of the gorge to stay in the shallows. Sam followed close behind, noticing the rumbling in her gut – she hadn't eaten since before leaving the Capitol.

_Jeez!_ Had it only been _this morning_ that she'd taken off in that hovercraft after saying goodbye to Agrippa? In less than twenty-four hours she'd been thrown off a moving hovercraft into rough seas, been hurled against a rock wall by Vespasian, had to kill an innocent ally, and had nearly faced death at Regal's vengeful hands before being bailed out by River – culminating in a chase by the most horrific mutt she'd ever seen. This horrible Quell had already outstripped her first Games as far as shocks went, and it hadn't even been a day.

_How much worse could it get_?

"Sam…" River said quietly, picking her way slowly into the darker depths of the ravine. "When I was…going through the trees, I saw some of the other mutts."

"Are they all like that?" Sam asked, concerned. She had hoped the Gamesmakers would toss in a _few_ breaks.

"No," River replied, assuaging Sam's fears. Her follow-up, however, re-ignited them in a far worse way. "I…had to hide from a couple at one point. They aren't all animals, Sam."

Dread crawled along Sam's forearms, provoking little goose bumps to poke up from her chilling skin. "What do you mean?"

"They…uh, some of them are…_were_…people," River's words came with a nervous tone as the little light available dimmed. "But they…they weren't really _normal_ anymore. It was like someone had stuck stuff together on them…like they weren't people anymore."

"Okay," Sam said shakily, throwing a look over her shoulder. "Okay, just grab my hand, okay? We'll take it slow. I'm not going anywhere without you."

River nodded quickly, snatching up Sam's hand and breathing in heavily. She turned back towards the darkness, walking slowly towards what the two girls hoped would be an exit.

As much as Sam wanted to calm her friend's fears, she felt skittish enough herself. Regal's attack had shaken her, and the mutt hadn't helped. River's revelation about the nature of the arena's mutts made things worse…_people_? Who was to say they were just…_people_? Guilt trickled through her gut as her nightmare flooded through her mind again; Gannet's gutted corpse laughed at her through the subconscious mist, accusing her of leading River towards death.

"_Sam…_"

She jumped, startled as she looked about. What was that? As her mind had wandered, something had called to her…something from the darkness, something unseen. Something knew she was here; _wanted_ her here where her eyes became less and less useful with each step.

"What is it?" River had noticed her unease through her tensing hand.

"Nothing," Sam said quickly. "Nothing. I'm still here…let's just keep going. It's dark, that's all."

River paused, giving Sam a long look before treading off down the watery gorge. Sam's heartbeat thumped away at an accelerating pace, sending renewed beads of sweat down her forehead. The already-hot atmosphere of the jungle pressed in around her with the gorge's walls, trapping her in a suffocating environment of claustrophobia. What was going on her?

"_Don't ignore me, Sam_."

Sam spun around, whimpering loudly as she peered through the darkness. _Get out where I can see you! Get out here!_

"Are you okay, Sam?"

She jumped at River's innocent question, her eyes wide.

"I…"

"Maybe we should stop?" River posed, her expression halfway between concern and anxiety. The darkness cast long shadows across what light touched her face, inflicting a sadistic picture upon her features.

"I don't need to stop," Sam said, more for her own benefit than River's. "I…okay. Let's take a break at this ledge over here."

She led River to a small outcropping, just large enough for two to lie down upon. Exhaustion weighed on Sam despite her nightmare-plagued rest earlier, but she couldn't sleep now. Not while…while _whatever this was_ haunted her through this dark dungeon.

"Do you wanna sleep?" River asked. "I can stay awake and watch things."

"No. No, you sleep," Sam replied. "You need it more than me."

"Sam," River said, hurt sounding from her words. "Don't force yourself to go too hard."

"I'll be _fine_," Sam answered a little too harshly. "Please, River. I need a little time to think...to deal with some things. Get some rest."

River didn't complain. She curled up in the fetal position on the bare rock, her eyelids closing and bringing her to sleep within five minutes. Sam sat next to her, taking off her boots and letting her bare feet run through the water.

How had it come to this? How had she been forced back into the arena, this _damned_ place where everything that could go wrong came to pass? For two years, her dreams and worst thoughts had run back to that desolate desert where she'd watched friends die, witnessed her first real love give his life to protect her, and been forced to make the decisions that stripped away the life of others. Storm had wanted her to go find beauty again after she'd won; to love, to live, to laugh. Instead, all she'd done was sink deeper into misery with each passing day.

Sam ran a finger over River's forehead, pushing a lock of dark hair away from her eyes. She slept peacefully – free from the memories, the guilt, the pain. She still had the innocence Sam had clung to until the Games had snatched them away; unless she died, River would undoubtedly face the same thing. Regal's death and the mutt's attack were just the beginning. Sam knew if River were to win…she'd have to face all those she trusted in the arena dying around her. For a fourteen year-old girl, those scars would never heal.

"_What's the matter, Sam? Can't touch the stars in this cave?_"

Sam breathed in sharply and flicked her head around. _Something_ was speaking to her from the shadows…something was following her down here. She pulled out her rapier softly, remembering River's words about the mutts; who was to say they couldn't speak, as well?

"_What do you think that's going to do? Kill all these memories? Why do you keep fighting it, Sam?_"

Something was there, coming out from the darkness. Sam stood up in the water, careful not to wake River as she held her blade out. Two pinpricks of light caught her eye, growing larger as they emerged from the black.

_No_.

Barely visible in the dark, the body of Storm Hawthorne shambled towards Sam. He still wore the same shredded outfit he had on when he died, complete with a stab wound over his heart that leaked white, viscous fluid with each step. His skin was bleached white, reflecting out of the black with an unnatural matte sheen. His eyes were no longer the pair Sam had longed to look into again, but rather two cold, glowing orbs of white, dead and unmoving in deep-set sockets. His mouth gaped open in a dead gasp, showing only an icy black void beyond his frozen lips. He spoke with ghastly words, exhaling stale air with each unsettling syllable.

_Mutt!_ It had to be – what had the Capital _done?_

"_What's wrong, Sam? Think I'm just some Capitol creation; come to hurt you with fingers and teeth? Afraid to face your own pain?"_

"No!" Sam swished her sword in front of her. "You're not Storm. He's dead!"

"_Do you know how my last moments in your arms were, Sam? Cold, dark – just like this. Scared - and forced to be strong for your sake; can you even fathom what that's like?"_

"Stay away from me!" Sam yelled, forgetting about River as her eyes lit up with fear and anger. "I don't know what you are-"

"_How do you do it?" _Storm's body squatted atop the surface of the water as if it were concrete. "_How do you bottle it up inside, hide everything from that little girl behind your mask of lies? How do you try to love again when you're saddled with the nightmares of my death? Nobody knows the guilt you bear! They'll never see all that pain; never witness your darkness within!"_

"You're not Storm!" Sam emphasized with her blade, stamping her foot in the water. "Storm's gone! He loved me!"

"_I see the cracks starting to form, Sam. You can pretend to ignore your fear, but being back in the arena scares you. You remember the bodies and blood, don't you – no matter how hard you try to forget it."_

"Stay away!"

"_The memories are coming back, flooding in between your synapses. You'll know when it all comes together…and when it does…I'll be waiting for you."_

Storm's eyes lit up like bonfires as he shrieked, forcing Sam to look away. She swung her sword in front of her blindly in expectation of an attack – but when she looked back up, only the black confronted her. The cave taunted her with its emptiness, laughing from the unseen depths.

Storm or not, _something_ was waiting for her – and it meant to destroy her before these Games were over.


	21. The Cannon Sounds

_Boom!_

The pounding shot of the cannon awoke Sam from fitful sleep. She blinked, looking over at River as her ally stooped on the rocky outcropping. Somehow Sam had fallen asleep, despite seeing Storm the previous night…

_Wait_. Had that been Storm? A mutt? What had she actually seen?

"You were tossing in your sleep," River observed neutrally.

"I had a bad night," Sam mused, rubbing her temple. "How about you?"

"I had a couple bad dreams."

"I'm sorry…what were they about?"

River looked down at the water, her face hiding whatever lay behind her green eyes. "I don't really want to talk about it."

So she wasn't the only one dealing with problems in here – had Storm actually been there, then? Was he more than just a Capitol construct sent to demonize her…or was he even less, just a repressed memory shaming Sam into confronting her survivor's guilt?

"Let's get going then," Sam said a shade snappishly. "I want to get somewhere where there's actual _light_."

River didn't laugh at the joke – indeed, she didn't show much of any emotion at all as the two made their way down the ravine. Gannet hadn't been a particularly emotional girl either, but to Sam it seemed as if the younger girl was dealing with thoughts of her own.

"River," Sam spoke up after a while of tromping down the water-filled gorge. "Last night…did you see who had died yet?"

"Cecelia, the other from 8, the girl from 1 after last night, the girl from 11, and the boy from 12," River said, straight to the point. "Five gone."

_Both from 2, jeez_. The alliance was growing smaller and smaller – in just twenty-four hours! Both Thresh and Lily were now on their own as far as their districts went; no district victory there. And Regal…of course. No one would regret that well-deserved death.

_But you'll still have to kill them all, Sammy, _a hissing voice in Sam's head scorned. _All of them. Firth, Thresh, River, even little Lily. Your hands will bear the scars when blood's trickling over the last one's blond hair and agonized, innocent face. _

Sam shook off the thoughts – they weren't hers. _Get out of my head…_

"Well," she moved on. "That's…five less for us to worry about, I guess?"

"There's still Vespasian, Thresh, and the others. I'm not really excited."

"Thresh's on our side, River."

She gave Sam an unconvinced look in return. "How long do you think that's going to hold up, Sam? He's bigger than any of us outside of Vespasian. I'm…a little uncomfortable with him."

"Don't worry," Sam stopped, putting a hand on River's shoulder and trying for a reassuring smile. "He won't hurt us. Nothing's going to happen to you or me."

"I think something already has," River bemoaned, averting her eyes.

The two stayed quiet for a while before River spoke up again, her voice quiet: "It was about Gannet."

"What was?"

"My dreams last night," River paused, leaning against one of the rock walls of the dark gorge. Her pupils were wide in the lack of ambient light, her hair a tangled mess. "It was my sister. She was…she was _laughing _at me. She – she was taunting me that you were gonna…gonna kill me. She was telling me to leave, to run away, to go…I dunno…"

River hit her fist against the rock, sinking her chin to her chest. She didn't cry, but Sam could tell the smaller girl struggled to contain her feelings. Clearly, the apparition of Storm hadn't been the only thing haunting this arena. River had just felt the tension and apprehension in another way – through the pressures of survival, rather than guilt.

It made Sam wonder – _had her account of human mutts been just another mind game from this arena_?

"It'll be okay," Sam patted River on the shoulder. "Listen, River. I'm not gonna let what happened to her happen to you. I don't know how, but we'll get out of here fine; somehow."

River looked up with doubting eyes. "That's a promise you can't keep."

Sam paused before responding. "Sometimes we just have to believe."

River didn't look convinced. "Alright…let's just go. I don't…I don't wanna…"

She didn't finish her sentence, merely walking off in the direction they'd been traveling. Sam knew the feeling: It was the same thing she'd felt two years prior, after her talking with Gannet. Only one came out of the Hunger Games, and River had realized it. No matter what sweet lies Sam said, it didn't change the utmost truth about this competition of death. Twenty-three died; one lived on, traumatized for life by the hideous memories carried forth.

Something was coming, however – far ahead down the dark gorge, a small swath of white light appeared. It wasn't like the limited sunlight leaking down from above, filtered by all the darkness of this place; no, it spoke of an _exit_ to this tension-filled hell.

"Up ahead," Sam pointed. "Looks like we can get out of here."

River nodded without speaking, picking up her pace through the water. Sam slogged after her, eager to escape – this was a bad place. She had to get out.

A shape appeared in the light as the pair got closer – human, seemingly, and male. Fairly tall, pretty well-built…

_No. More. Games!_

"Sam!" the figure called. "Is that you?"

_The arena's playing with your head! That's not anyone!_

"Firth!" River exclaimed. "It's us!"

Unconsciously, Sam's hand slid towards her rapier. She wouldn't let the Gamesmakers trick her again like they had with Storm – like they had in her dreams. No! Not again!

_GET OUT. GET OUT._

"C'mon!" Firth waved them ahead as the pair got close. "We're-"

Sam didn't wait for him to finish. She yanked her blade out, flicking on the vibration cell and smashing her elbow into Firth's windpipe as he ran up to them. He stumbled back, caught off guard and shocked by her move. She followed up quickly, whipping the rapier to Firth's exposed neck and shoving him into a wall. Sam breathed heavily on his face, her eyes an inch from his as she pressed the vibrating blade edge up against his throat.

"Get out of my head!" she screamed. "You're not Firth!"

"Sam, jeez!" Firth pleaded, his hands struggling to pull her away. "It's me! Calm down!"

"You're not really here!" Sam shouted. "Stop playing games with me!"

"No, Sam!" River pulled on her from behind, trying desperately to prevent the catastrophe at hand. "Stop! Please!"

Sam's eyes snapped into focus, looking deeply into the shock in Firth's expression. She stepped back, her mouth agape at her actions as she tossed her blade to the ground with a clatter. River and Firth gave her space as she slowly walked backwards to the cave exit, shaking her head as she went.

_Gannet was right. She was right in River's dreams; you're going to kill them all_.

"No," Sam whispered. "No…no, no, keep away from me. Stay away."

"Whoa, whoa," Firth held up his hands. "Slow down. You're fine."

"I'm just gonna hurt you," Sam continued shaking her head as she put distance between herself and Firth. "Run away from me. Please."

"I'm not going to," Firth said. "I'm not going anywhere."

Sam threw her hands to her side, slumping down into the earth and falling onto her rear. She tucked her knees to her chest, pressed her forehead to her knees, and began to cry.

_What's going on with me?_

* * *

_Run, run, run_.

Solara hadn't expected this in the arena. Born as the granddaughter of a victor, she'd lived a decent life in District 5 before being Reaped. She hadn't expected it; hadn't expected any of this – the jungle, the drop into the jungle canopy out of a hovercraft, the predators and hunters and giant blue energy wall that closed in with every passing hour. But this – _this _– was something far more horrifying on her tail now.

She was in prime physical condition, but keeping ahead of the hunter on her tail was no easy task. She vaulted a fallen cypress trunk, launching herself off the wood with a perfectly-placed hand. A clearing opened up ahead – _no, too easy_. She was losing ground with every second; the hunter on her tail carried a far faster gait. Pulling out into the grassy clearing was what it _wanted_ her to do – in the open ground, it would catch up in seconds and drag her to her death.

_Best to head deeper into the jungle…_

A ball of fire hit the tree next to Solara, forcing her to veer to her right. _Shit!_ The hunter had fireballs, too? That wasn't even fair! It was already a physical specimen…_whatever_ it was.

Solara had remembered a pair of coal-black eyes and a primal snarl, leaping out of the way just before something huge had nearly taken her head off. She'd only escaped with her life by the slightest of hairs – and one slip-up here would result in her death. She had no intention of being the sixth casualty of the 100th Hunger Games, especially not to some unseen killer.

Solara's long blonde hair trailed her like a cape as she pounded through the jungle, desperately searching for something to use as a weapon. She'd gone without tools, weapons, and food for an entire day; in her weakened condition, she couldn't keep up this chase forever. Eventually the hunter would run her down and gore her – she couldn't be defenseless for the inevitable confrontation.

Another tree exploded in fire, nearly igniting Solara's foot as she hurdled a downed trunk. Closer, closer – she didn't have any room to maneuver in the thick brush. _Damned if you do, damned if you don't…_

A carnal roar sounded from behind her as she bounded to her right. A huge impact blew off a tree ten meters behind – the hunter had closed. Solara tossed a look over her shoulder, catching sight of something powerful and muscular rebounding from the hit as she dashed forward. _Left, right, left right_ – she moved forward without thinking or blinking, reacting on pure animal instinct.

_Pow!_ An incredible force slammed into the small of her back, shooting an unimaginable pain up Solara's spine. She flew to the earth, her body convulsing. She hadn't been fast enough, quick enough, smart enough – a heavy breath told her that the hunter had caught up. It was over.

Solara wouldn't give up that easily, however. She snagged a nearby rock, clenching the stone in her fist like a hand axe. Without a shriek of rage, she swung her body over and punched the rock forward.

The hunter caught her arm in mid-swing, easily intercepting her blow. A haughty laugh – a _human_ laugh – touched her ears as she blinked away sweat and pain. A vise-like grip closed about her throat, hefting her athletic body into the air. Solara struggled, twitching her feet as she tried to make contact with the ground.

"What have we here?" a scratchy, deep voice sounded off. "So quick to give up? How disappointing."

Solara gasped in pain and breathlessness as the grip tightened about her neck. She opened her eyes, staring into a pair of jet-black irises that appraised her curiously. To her, they looked like pure evil – the eyes of Hell peering out her just before she would die.

"I-_fuck_ you!" Solara snarled as best she could. "Just get it over with!"

"But of course," the dark eyes replied. "No purpose in sticking around…no _purpose _at all. Just like you…just like me."

The hunter picked up Solara's waist with his other hand, hoisting her up like a barbell. She had one vision of blue sky peeking down between the treetops before the hunter brought her down upon his outstretched knee. A blinding shock of pain accompanied a viciously-loud _crack!_ Solara's world was engulfed in a sea of white, her vision blurring away as she knew no more.

The hunter dropped the body of District 5's female tribute to the ground, its spine snapped and life snuffed out.

"How bland," the hunter mused. "Soft human bodies…nothing that weak should survive."

With his words the cannon sounded.

_Boom!_


	22. Lullabies

"I'm right here, Sam. Not going anywhere…come on, one step at a time."

Firth held Sam's hand as they moved through the jungle, trailed by River a few meters behind. Sam's eyes flicked about the rainforest, every tree and growth potentially hiding some new danger – physical or psychological. Her breathing ranged from paced and smooth to frantic and wild as fears of another manifestation of her mind crept up. The guilt that had hit her hard in the arena had only intensified after she'd attacked Firth, building like a dam of stress holding back the flood.

She couldn't take her mind off of things. The further Sam went into the arena the more it weighed down on her – as if the Games themselves this year were built to destroy her from the inside-out.

"What's that blue thing over the trees?" River piped up, looking back to the energy wall as it inched forward bit by bit. "Force field?"

"It's a herder," Sam muttered, keeping her eyes down.

"What?"

"It's herding us. If we don't stay ahead, it'll kill us…that's what Vespasian said."

"You trust him?" Firth sounded skeptical as he helped her over a log. "Excuse me if I don't. How'd he tell you that, anyway?"

"He found me," Sam said. "At the beginning of the Games."

Firth opened his mouth to ask more, but a look from River shut him down. "Alright. Let's keep moving, then…Thresh and the others were headed West, and I figure we can catch them."

"Others?" Sam asked. In the few hours they'd been trekking away from the cave, she had barely asked anything. If the alliance was still intact, she'd happily welcome the good news.

"Yeah. Cal and Lily dropped in near me, and Thresh ran into us a couple hours later yesterday," Firth answered to Sam's relief. "Found a supply pack, but that's about it. No real weapons. Could probably use some besides what you two have, but that's just me."

"Regal's dead," Sam mused.

"What?"

"She died. Last night."

Firth looked unsure. "I didn't see her on the death count. Just the two from 8, then the two from 11 and 12."

"A mutt killed her," Sam looked off into the trees, reliving the gruesome death. "Broke her in half. Just like her sister."

"Sam," Firth's voice shifted in a nonthreatening direction. "Do you want to stop for a bit?"

"No," she cut in quickly. "No, no…we need to keep going."

"If you wanna stop, it's okay…"

"No!"

"Alright, alright," Firth surrendered. "Just wanted to ask."

_He wants to kill you while you rest_, a tiny voice spoke up in Sam's head. _Better kill him before that happens_.

_Stop_, Sam thought, forcing her face to remain neutral as she battled her mind. _Get out. Stop._

_I'll never stop, Sam. Don't you remember how you told me you loved me? Now look at you…skanking around with salacious guys like this_.

_You're not Storm. Get out_.

Sam shook her head to force "Storm" to disappear. Whatever he was – real, not real, a Capitol trick – it had to end. These Games were only in their second day and already they'd gone on too long. Whatever the great energy wall was herding them towards, Sam hoped it came fast.

"So it's just the two from District 2, then everybody else?" River piped up after a while of walking in silence. "That's all we have to worry about?"

"There's that weird guy from District 1," Firth said. "But I don't think he was on speaking terms with Vespasian, really. Looked like he was kinda disappointed during all three days of training. Like he was shown up; probably 'cuz he was."

A rustling in the undergrowth alerted the trio to danger. Sam swished her rapier out in front of her, her eyes scanning for movement. The _click_ of River's last harpoon loaded into her speargun spooked Sam enough to nearly swing.

"You are too loud. An enemy will hear you from a hundred meters away."

Thresh emerged from the jungle behind them, toting a massive rock in one of his bear-sized palms. He looked no worse for wear through a day and a half of the Games, his massive build as brawny as ever.

"I have trailed you for half of a kilometer," he reprimanded. "Another would not be so unwilling to kill you."

"I guess that's a good thing we're allies then, huh?" Firth stuck a hand on his hip.

Thresh laughed, a single syllable from his mouth: "I suppose so, District 4."

Sam felt ready to say something before another voice broke in, excitedly calling her name. She turned about to see Cal trotting out of the jungle, running up to her and wrapping her in a hug. She returned the gesture awkwardly, tossing an uncertain glance back at Firth. The boy didn't look happy at the scene; he stared off into the jungle as the two from District 10 reunited, rolling his eyes. Sam spotted Lily's blonde head peeking out of the tree line, last to reveal herself after making sure the way was clear.

"Jeez, I was worried about you," Cal said after letting go of Sam. "When we couldn't find you –"

"It's okay," Sam backed up a step. "I'm fine. You don't need to worry."

_You big baby_, she thought. She found herself wondering who was wearing the pants between her and Cal – sometimes it seemed as if he'd need more saving than she ever would.

"If you are done with your mating rituals," Thresh admonished the two. "We need to gain distance on the force field. It will cut down the weaker and exhausted competitors and lead us to our goal."

Sam looked back at his reference; the energy wall had seemingly closed the considerable gap she'd put between it since she'd last looked. Had the Gamesmakers been speeding up – looking to kill off a tribute or two to send a message? Either way, she didn't want to stick around when it inevitably arrived. Being fried instantly didn't appeal to her choices of death.

Starving didn't either.

"Do you guys have anything to eat?" Sam broke in, noting a hunger washing over her now that she had time to relax. "I haven't eaten since…a while."

Thresh laughed, pulling a large pack off his shoulders and digging a charred bird-like animal out of its depths.

"I do not know what it is," he raised an eyebrow, ripping off half of the burnt avian corpse. "But I killed it and lit it on fire. It is a useless thing; a bird that cannot fly. I suppose it will satiate your hunger, however."

Sam took the offering eagerly, tearing off half for the similarly-famished River and quickly biting into the charred flesh.

_Blecchh!_ She nearly hurled the bitter food up, forcing down bites of what tasted like a cross between okra and a burnt tire. Her stomach craved the meal, however, and despite protestations from her taste buds, Sam shoved the rest of the bird half down her gullet. _Better eat something, Sammy…even if it is…strange, charred, flying animal…_

"That looked like it tasted good," Firth smirked, watching River and Sam's expressions.

"Let's just…go…" Sam said. "And forget I ate that."

Thresh and Firth led the way through the jungle as the remainder of the alliance moved out. Sam could see Cal wanting to talk to her, but she had no desire to talk about her feelings – or even herself – at the moment. She sought out Lily instead, shepherding the girl along and keeping her level.

"How've you been holding up?" Sam asked, pushing a thick vine out of the way to keep up with the two leaders. "I know this arena's not really normal…"

Lily shrugged, blinking hard as a leaf slapped in her face from the vine. Mud and sweat coated her two blonde braids, baking them in a layer of brown soot. Small streaks of blood left crusty scabs across her formerly-dainty face, the relics of the rainforest's assault on sensibility. She looked even smaller than normal in this environment, dwarfed by the sheer enormity of the Yucatan jungle. Sam was glad she'd been able to team up – without the likes of Thresh and Firth around, it seemed the surroundings would simply swallow Lily up.

"I remember going to District 12 during my Tour," Sam changed the subject to put her at ease. "You guys had all the trees like this."

"Not like this," Lily murmured, her soft soprano barely audible over the ambience of the jungle. "Nobody goes there, anyway."

"You have all that pretty forest and you never go?" Sam asked, incredulous.

"My mom won't let me," Lily said. "It's kinda scary and dark, too."

"Why don't you get your dad to do it?" Sam said, inadvertently stepping on a verbal landmine.

Lily paled, shaking her head. She paused a long while before responding: "My dad was a Peacekeeper."

Sam took a moment to put two and two together. A Peacekeeper? Who in the right mind in District 12 would marry a Peacekeeper, let alone have a child with one? The Capitol's police hadn't been in considerable force in the outlying district during her visit, but that seemed like an incredible stretch. Nobody even in District 10 would marry a Peacekeeper; it was so socially out of bounds that the mere mention of something like that would be laughed out of any abode.

Then she connected the pieces. _Oh_. _Dammit, Sammy!_

She'd only heard stories of some of the poorer citizens of the Slaughterhouse Ward venturing to the Peacekeeper barracks during the winter, in search of food and a little money…with themselves as the barter. It was the world's oldest profession, after all – or so Cheyenne would say when noting the poor, destitute women.

Sam certainly hadn't thought _Lily_, with her well-defined features of youth and grace, would be the offspring of_ that_, however.

"I'm sorry," Sam whispered. "I didn't mean to prod."

An awkward silence settled over the two as they kept walking. The little girl's past ran deeper than Sam had suspected…and once again, she knew she had yet another ally she couldn't kill. River, Firth, Cal, Lily…_maybe_ she could off Thresh if he tried something, but even that seemed like a faint notion at best.

Unfortunately, fate had had its way so far about taking away those she'd come to care about.

* * *

Evening fell around the smoldering fire the group had set up camp about. Thresh had kicked out the blaze with the onset of darkness, happy to trust daylight's concealment of the smoke but unwilling to leave the light burning. The older victor from District 11 had already fallen asleep. Nearby, River had passed out against a tree, with Firth snoozing on the ground near her feet. Sam had the first watch of the evening by her own choice – she didn't trust herself to fall asleep _that_ easily.

Cal, naturally, wouldn't let her take the watch alone.

"For two days into the Games," he said, taking a seat next to her against a tree trunk. "You still look great."

"My hair's a mess, I have a ton of bruises, a gash that's scabbing over my eye, and a bunch of scratches from all these trees," Sam looked down at her torn jumpsuit. "And that's not counting the dirt. I look terrible, Cal."

"Just trying to give compliments," he smiled, leaning back into the tree. "At least the stars are out. I was getting sick of all the clouds and showers."

Sam hadn't even noticed until now. Up above in the dark sky, the dots of the drinking dipper shone as clearly as any evening on the prairie. She couldn't make out the North Star, but just seeing something familiar from home lifted what little spirit she had left.

"That's a start, I guess," she shrugged.

Lily shifted in her sleep, her head resting on Sam's waist like a pillow. She whimpered softly, her fist curling in the midst of a bad dream. Sam ran a finger through her blonde hair to calm her, speaking quiet words of comfort.

"Hush, Lily. Hush," Sam whispered, running her hand over her forehead. "'_Hush, little baby, don't say a word, mamma'll find you a mockingbird; and if you must cry for when you fall down, you'll still be the sweetest baby in town_.'"

Lily stopped squirming in Sam's lap, settling into a more peaceful rest. It was a shame she'd even been picked; she barely looked her young twelve years. Kids like this didn't deserve a place in a game of death; this wasn't competition. It was sadism; ruthless killing for the entertainment of a "civilized" morass long since deprived of morality.

Sam let the lullaby linger on her lips, running her index finger across Lily's cheek. The Hunger Games were too much tragedy for this little girl, born out of desperation herself. Life itself had long since stopped being fair to her.

Cal smiled next to her as he looked on. "You're gonna be a great mom one day, Sam. That's about the sweetest thing I've ever seen; between two people who barely know each other, to boot. You learn that from your mother?"

"No," Sam said slowly, looking away. "I never met her. She died when she had me. Jake sang it to me once when I was little, and I just remembered it."

Cal backed off his point. "I'm sorry…didn't mean to dig that up. I'm sure she'd be proud of where you are now."

"After I was responsible for her dying?" Sam scoffed self-deprecatingly. "I'm sure."

"Don't blame yourself, Sam. Things happen. You can't change that…besides, how could she not be? Look at you. You're a victor, getting through the arena again and looking after others while you're doing it. You don't think she'd be happy to see you singing that lullaby to Lily there; giving her a little peace?"

"Just a nightmare," Sam breathed in deeply, letting her head slump against the tree trunk. "I try to help where I can. We all need a friend sometimes."

_Especially me._

"It's too bad people like her and River get Reaped," Cal mused, changing subjects. "Too young for this kind of thing. They're just kids."

"What are we?" Sam looked over at him. "River's only three years younger than us. None of us should be here. It doesn't matter how old we are. What does anybody get out of this?"

Cal sat back without an answer. He watched Sam gazing out at the stars, her eyes focused and clear for the first time in the arena.

"What do you see up there?" he asked finally. "Just up in the night sky?"

"It's the last little bit of home I have left," she replied. "Jake showed me the patterns when I was little. Everything else back in District 10's been taken away from me…I don't really have anything else."

Cal didn't say anything for a minute before speaking up: "Nothing else from home, Sam?"

Sam looked over at him, something warm and bubbly fluttering up through her heart.

"I guess not the only thing."

Cal leaned in to Sam, connecting with her lips for just a few seconds. Sam's heart raced, accelerating rapidly in her rising chest. Electricity spread from her lips to her face, winding down through her neck and coursing throughout her veins. She opened her eyes as he backed away, her lids half-closed to try and preserve the feeling. For just a moment she'd forgotten she was in this horrible arena, locked in these terrifying Games. For a minute she remembered she was still seventeen, young and under the stars.

"I'm gonna go make sure that fire's fully out," Cal looked away, a slight smile playing across his face. "Be right back, Sam."

She watched him go as her eyes fell upon Firth's sleeping body. _Oh, no._ The familiar guilt plagued her guts, stemming up like a viper. He wouldn't know – but what did she still feel for him? If she was honest with herself, she felt much the same for the boy from District 4 – but _neither _of them would ever let her vacillate between the two forever. Sam would have to figure out where her heart pointed – and she'd have to do it soon.

Then again, that all depended on her _surviving_ the Games.

Still, she felt clear and level-headed for once. Her eyes shone their regular bright blue in her clarity, looking up at the stars as if greeting old friends. She wasn't as alone as she always felt – from little Lily, sleeping softly on her lap, to the two tributes searching for paths into her heart, others _did_ still care about who she was. She had purpose. She wouldn't be corrupted by this place. The stars could still smile down on her.

Just as soon as she felt confident, it all came crumbling down.

It started as a low, irregular thrumming from the dark jungle behind her – like a groaning man uttering a constant syllable from a scratched throat. A high-pitched squeal interlaced with the sound as it closed, creating a horrifying dissonance. Sam looked around in confusion, her eyes searching for the darkness before she spotted it.

Two pinpricks of blue light came slinking out of the darkness, lining Storm's corpse-white face with an unsettling glow. His mouth gaped open like an active coal mine from his native District 12, a black maw darker than the darkest night. Worse – words came from his mouth, but not simple sayings. No, he was _singing_, his voice infused with vocal poison.

"…_when the wind blows, the cradle will rock; when the bough breaks, to hell you all fall; and here you will come, memories and all."_

He lunged forward, his glowing white eyes roaring in her face: "_I'm waiting, SAM!_"

"Ah!" Sam flew back, knocking Lily off her lap and landing in the dirt.

"Whoa!" Cal had his hand on Sam's shoulder, looking into the jungle. "What is it? What's there?"

"Out there, it's…"

Sam looked past Lily's wide eyes, gazing into the dark rainforest. Storm was gone.

_Please let me be. Please…get out._

* * *

_**A/N: YES! Look what I did to Prim with Katniss dead – I am a bad person! Yes! Harvey Dent would be pleased! And more psycho-creep.**_


	23. Cracks in the Alliance

_**A/N: Apologize for the lack of hustle in cranking this chapter out; I had no idea where I was going for a while. If this is kinda subpar, I'll make up. Also, new poll on my profile page – polls tell me pertinent info (as in what happens if I kill people off, which I do at an alarming frequency), so your vote always helps!**_

* * *

_Boom! Boom!_

Five shots of the cannon roused Sam from the depths of sleep with a snap. Terrifying images of Storm and Clara from her dreams disappeared into jungle and thick foliage. Sweat covered her body with the morning dew – even in the coolest part of the day, the temperatures hung near 35 degrees Celsius with 100% humidity. There was no escaping the pervasive conditions.

She looked around quickly – no, the five shots weren't for her companions. River wiped her eyes clear of sleep nearby, apparently unconcerned by the shots. Thresh squatted on a rock, holding Sam's rapier and whittling away at a long, sturdy tree branch. He didn't look up as the others awoke, instead focusing singularly at his task. The muscular man from District 11 had hewn the wood so far into a long javelin, notching barbs into the end to stick in skin.

"Can I have that back?" Sam asked him, kneeling in the ground and drawling little circles in the dirt.

"No," Thresh replied without looking up, continuing to carve his lance. "What are you doing, District 10?"

"Drawing."

"A waste. The wealthy from the Capitol will not gift you with supplies for your artistic talents."

He looked over at her circles before finishing the train of thought: "Or lack thereof."

"I'm not an artist," Sam said sheepishly.

"Clearly."

Firth scooted over by Sam, ignoring Thresh. "Who you think got killed?"

"Five people," Sam replied. "Not us. Twelve of us left, now."

"Heh. Pragmatic way of putting it," Firth looked up towards the sky, scanning the gathering cloud cover. "Looks like we're in for rain."

"It's a jungle, Firth."

"Doesn't mean it has to rain every day," he scoffed with a twinge of resentment. "The Gamesmakers could give us a little relief."

Sam sat down in the dirt, slumping over her hands. "I don't think they're gonna do that."

"Yeah. I know where faith gets you," Firth chuckled. "Dead in a ditch. Is that a parachute?"

A long, black rod came floating down softly from the sky, tethered to a cloud-like blanket of silver, camouflaged against the gray skies. It skimmed canopy of the jungle, knifing through the highest boughs and coming to a steady stop atop a low-hanging branch. Firth pumped his fist, getting up and jogging over to the unexpected gift before any of the others had time to react. He pulled the parachute down, getting a good look at the long, black instrument before reporting his findings.

"Must have cost a fortune," Firth raised his eyes, an edgy smile playing across his lips as he showed off his reward. "It's a spear. Harpoon, I guess – has this draw-rope behind it so it can be thrown without losing it. Handy."

Cal and Sam had both drawn close, getting good looks at the weapon. The midnight-black rod looked like no normal spear to Sam; it seemed like something hewn out of Hell itself. The surface of the rod shined, sparkled almost – the black hue so dark it seemed overpowering. It tapered into the weapon-end, sporting a cruel, sloping, black blade without any sort of imperfection.

"It's not metal, though…" Firth looked quizzically at the spear. "No idea what it is."

"It is obsidian," Thresh hadn't even looked up from his roost, continuing to shave away his wooden javelin. "A volcanic rock. It is a sharper utensil than steel."

"That's that, then," Firth shrugged. He hadn't yet figured Thresh out. "Think I'll like it."

"Wait, wait," Cal held up his hands, questioning the assertion. "Shouldn't we figure out who's best with spears and give it to them?"

"Well," Firth laughed at him. "Case closed. Besides, finders-keepers, right?"

He slapped Cal on the shoulder, giving him a cocky nod and walking away, swishing the harpoon as he went. Cal's eye flinched, seepage of simmering anger floating up from his belly.

"We should…get going," Sam motioned, splitting the tension between the two. "Thresh, can I have my thing back?"

District 11's last tribute rolled the rapier along the ground, hefting his own wooden javelin up and testing the weapon out. Thresh had whittled an impressive tool from little more than a long branch; his lance was taller than he was, thick and sturdy in its handle. The point curved into a four-barbed prong, looking capable of slashing open other tributes with ease. It wasn't the elegant weapon Firth had just claimed, but it would do the trick – and to Sam, it certainly fit Thresh's rough personality more than the blackened obsidian harpoon did.

The two strongest members of the alliance couldn't have been more different. Firth contented himself with a swagger and cockiness, showing flashes of empathy in between long periods of confident bravado – almost arrogance, although he lacked the dismissive attitudes of the likes of Royal and Regal. On the other hand, Thresh acted as if nobody was watching. He carried on his business like they were everyday occurrences, showing little to Sam in the day they'd been together besides a hardened, almost cold exterior.

Of course, he had a reason. He'd watched countless of his own tributes – his protégé – die at the hands of the Games for twenty-six years. One didn't need an excuse for chilliness with that kind of emotional baggage.

_You're well on your way to that, Sammy_, the voice in Sam's head cropped up again. _Clara's dead at your hands and Storm keeps following you around. Good combination_. _Maybe you'll drug up on morphling or alcohol – or worse_. _Do anything to make the pain go away…you'd like that, wouldn't you?_

_Go away_.

"Hey, you okay?"

Cal had a hand on her shoulder as Sam shook off the thoughts. His eyes showed concern, still clearly thinking about last night.

"I'm fine," Sam rubbed her eyes with her hand, blinking away the visions of the past. "Just thinking."

"If you want to talk about it, Sam…"

"No; no."

She shrugged his hand off as Thresh stepped up before the others, craning his neck to see the energy gate's progress.

"The force field gains," he spoke succinctly, sticking the butt of his lance into the earth. "We must make ground before nightfall."

"Where is this all talking us?" Cal piped up. "I mean…it has to lead somewhere."

"Every road has its ending," Thresh replied cryptically. "I believe it will be a place of sacrifice. What you believe, District 10, is up to you."

Thresh ignored Cal's expression of displeasure as he pushed his way past low-hanging vegetation, aiming to put some separation between them and the force field. Firth followed close behind, and Sam – who didn't want to engage in any boy drama – paired up with River in the middle of the group.

"How'd you sleep?" Sam asked her, trying her best to sound chipper as the two pushed past spindly branches. A meager meal of nuts and roots Thresh had dug up angrily cried for more in her stomach; reaping the rewards of wealth due a victor had spoiled Sam's ability to resist hunger.

"Bad," River replied briefly without explanation. She seemed unusually quiet for Sam – even for her typical quiet, unassuming demeanor.

"More dreams?"

River nodded. Clearly she'd been seeing things too – and it made Sam wonder again whether or not Storm was real. Had he been there last night, watching her share a kiss with Cal? Was he all up in her head?

Lily scampered up to the two girls, leaving Cal tromping behind and holding up the rear. She kept her head down, looking more frightened as the minutes went on with the darkening jungle and gathering storm clouds.

Sam figured she could trust the girl – and for River's sake as well as her own, she had to find out how deep this rabbit hole went.

"Lily?" she asked, pushing aside a snaking vine as the group made their way down a forest slope. "Have you…been having weird dreams since the Games began?"

The small girl's blue eyes bulged, as if Sam was preparing to devour her: "H-how'd you know that?"

"It's kind of a running occurrence," Sam replied with a confused mind. "Do…you wanna talk about them?"

Lily shook her head quickly – no. Just like River, however, she acquiesced just as fast. "It's my aunt. She keeps showing up."

"Is she nice?" Sam said blindly without thinking.

Lily bit her lip, looking up towards Thresh hesitantly. The big man exchanged shallow verbal barbs with a harpoon-swishing Firth, rattling off something regarding "District 4 recklessness." Only then did Sam get the point, tying everything Gale Hawthorne had told her in District 12 along with this little girl's life story.

_Thresh killed a girl named Everdeen in his Games – Katniss, that was her name according to Storm's dad. Lily's last name is Everdeen. Lily's related to Katniss somehow…and thus probably knew Gale…and thus Storm…_

_Oh God, Sam, what have you done?_

"I never met her," Lily said meekly, her voice squeaking into barely-audible ranges. "I only know what she looks like from my mom's pictures. She tells me I'm going to get killed…like she did…because of him."

Her eyes followed Thresh as he shoved a palm sapling away from his path, continuing to talk with Firth. Sam at last realized her mistake: She'd arranged the alliance with no regard to anyone else's feelings or concerns. Inadvertently, she'd allied two tributes who should have been mortal enemies, who had bloodlines that ran back into lethal conflict through these very games. It was an association that could not last, one that would never be able to fall back on trust.

_Cal and Firth…now Thresh and Lily. This is a nightmare_.

"Did...did you know a guy named Storm?" Sam asked cautiously. "Storm Hawthorne?"

Lily looked over with her eyes, already on to where Sam was going. "He didn't want to talk to people like me. We were both in the Seam."

"The Seam?" River asked.

"It's...it's where most of the coal people live," Lily eked out.

_So the poor people_, Sam thought. The way Lily had said that line had told her all she needed to know - just like the Slaughterhouse Ward back in District 10, the "Seam" sounded like the main residential slums of District 12.

"I talked with Storm's dad during my Victory Tour," Sam said. "Not really the nicest of guys."

"My mom knew him," Lily whispered, her head lowered. "He...he and my aunt were close I guess. He got really mad at my mom after she died and hurt her. I dunno."

Something horrible hit Sam's brain as Lily spoke. She hadn't given a second thought to how the Quell had been arranged – with her own Reaping, she'd been far more concerned with staying alive. But now something new dawned on her; between Thresh and Firth, from Cal to River, Regal, Vespasian, and Lily, the tributes in the arena didn't seem like so much a coincidence anymore. One could certainly still blame it all on relations to past winners or tributes, certainly, but a far worse trend was arising.

A number of them had ties to _her_.

"I don't want to die, too," Lily broke Sam out of her thoughts as the girl teetered on the verge of tears, caught up in a swell of emotions. "I don't."

"Hey," River compensated for Sam's mental derailment, placing a hand on Lily's shoulder and growing up in a hurry. "It's gonna be okay, Lily, alright? Nobody's gonna hurt you."

_Damn. I'm wearing off on her_, Sam thought with a measure of pride. She swept Lily up in a hug, holding her tightly as the small girl began to cry. "She's right, Lily. We're all gonna be okay. I'm not gonna let anybody hurt you."

Cal had caught up from the rear by now, looking uneasily through the darkening canopy as the force field inched along: "Sam…c'mon, we gotta keep moving."

"Would you_ give me a fucking second?!_" Sam exploded, clinging to Lily as the girl sobbed. How dare he bother her as she tried to cheer Lily up? Cal had a great tendency to stabilize situations, but his attempts to keep the status quo moving had pushed Sam's wildly-oscillating emotions off the edge.

"Look, Cal, we'll catch up," River tried to calm things down, stepping between the two. "Just go on ahead."

Cal surrendered, throwing a concerned look at Sam before hurrying through the foliage. Sam's hunger flared up on her again as she held Lily close, simmering with heat over the interruption. Lily calmed down after a bit, her cheeks streaked with dark tear marks.

"Hey," Sam knelt to bring herself to Lily's height, keeping her gaze focused right into the girl's eyes. "We're gonna make it out of this, okay? The three of us are gonna all be there when we get our victory ceremony."

"How?" Lily choked up.

"There's always a way," Sam said, trying to sound confident and assured. "You just stick close to me and River."

Lily nodded. Sam wasn't sure if she was convinced or not, but it was the best she could do. Whatever she'd said about Gannet being too young for the Games two years ago, Lily was ten times worse. Twelve year-olds had no place in contests of death.

"Sam," River tugged at her attention. "Don't forget to take care of yourself, too."

"I'm fine, River," Sam replied. She didn't worry about herself – _couldn't_ concern herself with her own thoughts and feelings. She had other lives riding on her decisions on actions; she couldn't lose another person close to her. She couldn't fail someone like she had Clara. "Don't worry about me."

"But I _do_," River said patiently as the three got walking again.. "You're trying to take care of everything. I know you're under stress, even if you're trying to hide it. Don't kill yourself for our sake."

Sam hated to concede the point, but River was right: She hadn't looked out for herself at all, even with Storm breathing down her neck – whether he was real or not. The past few days had wiped her out, between being dropped into the arena to Vespasian's near-destruction of her to the encounter with Regal and the mutt. She'd persevered – but barely, and not without help.

If she didn't learn from those close shaves, however, there wouldn't be another chance. This Quell had shown that it was more than capable of killing her off, whether that involved six feet of dirt or a journey into insanity.


	24. Clever Girls

Thresh stopped the group at a small waterfall hidden in the jungle depths. The man from District 11 looked as if he needed a break himself; sweat poured down Thresh's brow from the incessant heat and humidity. The six polished off the last of the nuts and roots they'd saved from breakfast, putting together a small meal to keep them going until the late afternoon. They'd made up ground on the advancing force field, putting some distance between them and whatever it would bring if it caught up.

The small, clear lake created by the waterfall, concealed by overhanging trees and surrounding foliage, tempted Sam to indulge in a little fun. It was hard to find anything to relieve stress in the arena; blowing off steam when possible was critical.

Sam took off her jumpsuit top, stripping down to her underwear and jumping into the crystal water. After hours in the stifling heat, the cool lake lit up her skin like a wave of raw pleasure. Tiny fish zipped through the water beneath her feet and legs, coalescing about her as she basked in the feeling.

River and Firth dove in nearby, sending up splashes of water.

"Good to see you actually smiling again," Firth commented to Sam as he surfaced, spitting out a mouthful of water. "You've been so serious this whole time."

"I'm sorry, we're just in the Hunger Games," Sam splashed him with water, laughing and tossing a look towards shore. Cal didn't look particularly happy with the proceedings, sitting with his legs crossed up against a tree. "I kinda have reasons to be serious."

"Well, don't kill yourself over it," Firth kicked his legs out, floating on his back on the water's surface. "You're gonna end up one of those young people who acts like they're sixty."

"Gee, thanks," Sam replied sarcastically. "That's just what I always wanted."

Firth laughed, paddling over to Sam and finding his balance on a rock below the surface. "You ever thought about doing your hair differently?" he remarked as he pulled on her ponytail. "I bet you'd look great with the Capitol's latest styles. We could do it like a tracker jacker hive."

"That's a _terrible_ idea," Sam swatted his hand away playfully. "That'd look horrible."

"You sure? We could dye you blue, too; it'd match your eyes. I can see you now as the centerpiece of one of that Salvador guy's pieces of 'art.'"

"Oh Jeez," Sam snorted. "Can't we make you do that, then? I could put you in a vat of green paint. That'd look good."

"No, definitely not me," Firth pointed out. "River and I both have green eyes. We'll dye her green."

"Who's dying?" River surfaced nearby, eliciting raucous laughter from both Sam and Firth. "What'd I miss?"

"Nobody," Sam finally said after she'd finished laughing. "Maybe Vespasian. I don't like him much."

"You're gonna get my buddy?" Firth looked offended. "Sam, you monster."

"He's not your _buddy_," Sam replied. "How does he even eat under that jaw thing? It's just…gross."

"Nose-feeding?" Firth stroked his chin as if interested. "Sounds like a Capitol fad in the making."

Sam was about to respond with a joke when something caught her attention. A subtle sound from the jungle touched her ears – a yelping squawk, primal and uncivilized. Her eyes flicked over the jungle – _not now, Storm. Please, let me have a moment_.

But it wasn't just her. River's eyes scanned the foliage, clearly having heard something. Firth slowly paddled towards shore, his demeanor instantly switching from jovial and comical to attuned and aware. Something was out there in the jungle, watching them.

Sam got to shore quickly, throwing on her jumpsuit and picking up her rapier. Lily looked positively terrified, backing up to the edge of the lake and throwing her head back and forth between pieces of dark rainforest. Thresh and Firth had both picked up their weapons, glancing between open patches of trees. River swam ashore as fast as she could, loading her last spear in her javelin gun and siding up next to Sam.

"Do you see anything?" she asked, her finger waving along the trigger.

"No," Sam replied, her own thumb ready to activate her sword's vibration cell. "Don't shoot at anything unless you know it's something bad."

Lily had her hands about Sam's waist, whimpering in fear: "What is it?"

"Probably mutts," Sam answered through clenched teeth. Whatever it was, it couldn't be good.

She had her answer soon. A bony, flesh-stripped triangular skull peeked from around a tree, clicking in animal tongues before it disappeared into the darkness. A flurry of clicks and yelps sounded amongst the trees as Firth, Cal, and Thresh all backed towards the three girls, clutching various weapons – Cal had gone as far as grabbing a large, angular rock to protect himself. Whatever was congregating among the trees had hostile intent.

"Wait for the enemy to reveal themselves," Thresh hissed, his lance leveled in front of him like a shield. "Do not make yourself vulnerable."

Movement caught Sam's eye. Another one of the triangular heads stuck itself out from around a tree, zeroing in on the group long enough to get a bead before disappearing into the jungle's depths. She found herself breathing heavily, her heart accelerating to rapid speeds. Lily clutched her tighter, in danger of cutting off her circulation to her legs as she readied for an attack.

The group didn't have to wait too long. With a carnal roar, one of the mutts in the tree line broke out from the trees and charged headlong. Sam had a glimpse of a bony skull lunging straight at her before she heard River's speargun discharge with a _whump_, lodging a javelin straight into the mutt's cranium. The creature stumbled back at the blow, slumping to the ground and twitching in death. It convulsed and spasmed for a few minutes before finally lying dead, splayed across the ground.

Sam finally got a good look at her attackers. The beast River shot looked like a cross between a dog and a hunchbacked person, standing atop two spindly legs. A blasted-out ribcage revealed a thick spine connecting a pair of broad shoulders, tied together only through the skeleton and broad, well-built muscles. A huge, triangular head stood atop the bare-bones body, curved into a sharp, cruel snout and a thick cranium built to ram and smash.

She didn't have much time to inspect the body. Inside a minute, another sharp, fearsome cry yelled out and a second mutt came flying in. A third raced forward from another area of jungle, the two targeting both Sam and Thresh independently.

_Now or never, Sammy_.

Sam clicked on her blade's vibration cell, swinging the rapier at the charging mutt. She struck her sword down at the creature, connecting into the barren flesh and taking one of its bladed arms off. The hit barely slowed down the creature as it lowered its head, dropping its cranium and slamming straight into Sam's waist. She fell hard, pain radiating through her hip as she gored the mutt through the head with her lethal weapon. River backed her up, smashing the mutt over the head with her now-empty javelin gun. The creature shrieked in pain, twitching on the ground as Sam stabbed it over and over.

Nearby, Thresh had gored the second mutt on his javelin, hoisting the creature aloft and throwing it into the earth. Yelps and shrieks flew out of the jungle as more of the creatures prepared to attack. Sam caught just a glance of a tumor-laden brown head peeking at her from behind a tree when another mutt slammed into her from the side.

_Thunk!_ Firth's harpoon caught the beast in its midsection, ripping off a clawed arm and goring it through the middle. It thrashed on the weapon, writhing in a death throe as its fellows massed. Sam felt herself slowing, worn down by the assault of the mutts as they slowly closed bit by bit.

"Clever girls," Thresh muttered, watching one of the mutts peek at him from behind a tree. "Trying to steal my attention…"

He lunged to the side with his javelin, catching another mutt that had used the distraction as a chance to charge. The mutt screamed as it was gored, its legs kicking out in fury and defiance. It smashed its head against Thresh's javelin, straining the wood to the point of breaking before it died.

The mutts massed now, roaring and shrieking as they coalesced for a final assault. Four of the beasts came hurtling out of the jungle from different directions, breaking up the alliance's attention as they targeted different tributes. Sam swung her thrumming sword into one's head, relishing its swipe straight through bone and muscle just before a second mutt smashed into her ribs from the side. She felt something give way as she fell to the ground, pain shooting through her side.

A mutt stood on top of her, roaring and raising a claw to swipe at her face. Sam readied her sword, prepared to go down fighting if it came to that. Before the beast had a chance to attack, however, a big rock smacked the creature on its head, knocking it off its perch atop Sam's waist.

Cal had another rock in his hand, standing over Sam and striking down at the mutt. The creature wouldn't go down so easily, catching Cal's hand with one of its spindly, grotesque arms and slashing with its other claws at his torso.

_Riiiiip!_ Blood spattered Sam's face as the mutt hit pay dirt. Its talons ripped through Cal's body, shredding at skin and sinew as it sent fleshy bits spewing in all directions. Sam lunged at the beast in a rage, impaling it on her vibrating blade and driving the screaming brute into the ground.

_Die! Die you bastard!_

Sam drove her blade into the creature again and again, sending dead chunks of flesh splattering into her face as she rendered the beast. Another charged at her from behind a nearby tree, receiving a face full of rapier as Sam sliced its head off with one solid swing. Another ducked beneath her swipe, catching Lily's waist and driving the screaming girl to the ground.

_No! You're not taking another one from me!_

Sam dove on the creature, hurling it off the girl with just her arms and spearing the mutt through one of its empty eye sockets. It thrashed about on her blade trying in vain to impale her on one of its talons as the life drained from its body. Sam felt a wave of euphoria run through her veins as she watched the beast die – _good, die! That's what you get!_

"Sam!" Firth exclaimed as she mutilated the beast's stiffening corpse. "It's dead! It's dead – come on, leave it!"

She pulled her sword out from the shredded mutt, letting the corpse cool as adrenaline flooded her blood. Sam looked about for any stragglers before rushing to Cal's aid – and he wasn't looking good. The mutt's talons had ripped a sizable hole through his torso, exposing one lung to the elements and sending blood cascading down his side.

"Oh no," Sam gasped as she took stock of the injury. "No, not again. This isn't fair."

Cal grabbed her hand, inhaling sharply from the pain: "Hey…don't worry, Sam."

"Oh Jeez," she pressed a hand over his wound, trying desperately to stem the flow of the blood. "Cal, hang on. Please!"

His injuries were far worse than she'd thought – Cal didn't stand a chance. The mutt had ripped Cal's entire hand off when it had intercepted his blow, leaving only a bloody stump behind. He was losing life quickly, his face already an unsteady shade of white as his eyelids slumped.

_I can't lose another! No, no…_

Sam's mind struggled for answers as she tried to hold back the inevitable. What could she do to keep him alive? There had to be something…

_Whizzz….thunk!_

She recoiled as Cal slumped back, thrown into the soft earth. An arrow stuck into the side of his head, pierced straight though his temple. A dark, metallic voice sounded out sharply from the jungle, capping off his death with an even more horrifying prospect.

"You see, Samantha…you cannot escape me forever."

* * *

_**A/N: Sorry Cal fans. It wasn't meant to be.**_


	25. Vespasian and Vox

_**A/N: Blahhhh terribly sorry for the long update intermission there! Left you all on a cliffhanger…this chapter gets rather violent throughout, well, the entire thing. Just a disclaimer.**_

* * *

"Cal!" Sam shrieked as her district partner's body fell limply to the earth.

Vespasian strode out of the tree line, his rapier dragging behind him. Artemis clung to the brush nearby, another arrow already notched in her recurve bow. She's scored the hit that had knocked Cal out of the Hunger Games and the game of life – a clean kill with perfect aim.

"Still too weak, Samantha," Vespasian hefted his blade up with one quick snap of his wrist, his metal voice reverberating around the jungle. "Your companion is already dead. Once more you fail to accept that which has already come to –"

He didn't have time to finish his lecture this time. Thresh grabbed his wooden spear, ignoring Artemis's loaded weapon and launching into a dead sprint at Vespasian. His move hit its intended effect, catching the two District 2 tributes off-guard and giving him the seconds he needed to close the distance. Vespasian readied his defense just as Thresh reached him, hitting the vibration cell of his rapier and slicing through Thresh's spear like a stick of butter.

Thresh didn't hesitate at all to the blow. He juked Vespasian's follow-up swipe, his chest escaping by inches from the humming blade tip. The big man from District 11 slammed his elbow into Vespasian's hand, jarring the rapier loose as he followed it up by taking the District 2 tribute to ground.

"C'mon!" Firth yelled, grabbing his harpoon. Artemis aimed an arrow straight at his chest, letting fly another lethally-precise shot.

_Whizz!_ Firth dove to the side as the arrow flew by, smacking with an audible _thunk_ into a tree trunk. He whipped around with his harpoon, hurling the lance towards Artemis's position. She sidestepped the throw just as quickly, spinning behind cover and reloading.

Sam stood momentarily paralyzed as the battle ensued. An unexpected crack of lightning precipitated the beginning of a light rain, blowing in from storm clouds that had appeared out of nowhere. Like a strobe light, the flashes lit up Sam's view of the fight. Thresh miscalculated a blow from Vespasian as he reared up over the District 2 tribute, catching a hand to the face. Vespasian showed off his own impressive power, snatching up Thresh one-handed and hurling the man off of him and into the dirt.

Sam caught a glimpse of Lily as her head swam. The girl from District 12 had her heels backed against the edge of the forest pool, her eyes as wide as dinner plates.

"River!" Sam snapped out of her stupor, snatching the girl by the arm. "Take Lily and go somewhere safe. Run!"

"No, there's still two of them!" River protested, her mind in fighting mode.

"Take Lily," Sam repeated, casting a look towards Firth battling Artemis. "Keep her safe. I'll come get you – please, River."

River hesitated, her disappointed eyes flicking between the two struggles and Sam. Finally she turned, grabbing Lily's shoulder and taking off into a run.

Free from her feelings of protection, Sam pulled her blade and turned towards Artemis.

The girl from District 2 saw her coming. She had pulled a wicked-looking pugio from her waist belt, slashing the dagger at Firth and forcing him back before stepping away. She had bought all the time she needed, quickly loading an arrow with her free hand while raising her bow. _Twang! _Artemis's quick shot fell apart in performance, sending her arrow careening towards the right and giving Sam more than enough time to close in. She hit the vibration cell on her sword, hearing the familiar hum of the rapier before swinging it at Artemis's head.

The girl ducked the high blow, spinning and showing off her extensive Career training. She whirled and delivered a kick to the back of Sam's knee, causing the leg to buckle. Sam stumbled as Artemis brought down her elbow on her jugular notch, sending waves of pain radiating through Sam's neck. She gasped for breath, collapsing to the ground as her hand slipped from her blade.

Artemis didn't have time to hit with a killing blow. Firth stabbed at her with his harpoon, missing her waist by an inch as she knocked away the weapon with her pugio. Artemis swung in a wide arc with her dagger, trying to stick Firth through the neck.

She wasn't the only one with training, however. Firth threw aside his harpoon, falling back on his plant leg and swinging his foot into Artemis's wrist. She screamed in pain, dropping her dagger and taking an instinctive leap. Firth didn't ease up, swinging his fist and connecting with her temple in a loud _crack!_ He landed a follow-up blow into her solar plexus, hitting once, twice, three times and finishing with a snapping punch straight against her chin. Artemis's head snapped back as she fell to the ground, her face scrunched up in pain.

Firth didn't hesitate. He kicked his harpoon to his hand, flipping the shaft to get a stabbing grip and planting the weapon's tip straight in Artemis's chest.

The girl from District 2 screamed like a banshee as the blade pierced her vital organs, spraying blood into the air. Artemis twitched as Firth pulled the blade out, her head going limp. He gutted her once more for good measure, digging in the harpoon to ensure she was dead.

"Sam!" Firth reached down to his fallen ally, grabbing her wrist and pulling her up. "Come on. We got one more."

Sam ignored the throbbing pain of her chest, picking up her humming blade and shaking off the woozy feelings from Artemis's blow. Vespasian had Thresh by the neck nearby, He looked up, catching Sam's gaze as she came running in.

"Master and apprentice," Vespasian hissed, hurling Thresh aside like a rag doll and wielding his sword.

He whirled his weapon like a buzzsaw as Sam closed in, swinging it laterally at neck height and connecting with Sam's blade. Sparks flew off as the two vibrating sabers clashed, screeching with a horrible noise and breaking free. Heavy rain blanketed Sam's face as she defended herself desperately against Vespasian's powerful swings, her rapier just catching his. Vespasian's jaw prosthetic filled her vision as he eked ever closer with each passing microsecond, his blade zipping about like a weapon possessed.

_Blang!_ Firth flew in with his harpoon, narrowly missing taking Vespasian's head off as the man deflected his spear away. Vespasian laid an elbow into Sam's face, knocking her aside and swinging powerfully at Firth. He hammered his rapier against Firth's weapon, sending bright flares of metal-on-metal lighting up the undergrowth. Lightning cracked as Firth narrowly dodged a blow, whipping his head back to avoid being decapitated. Vespasian took advantage, swinging with his strike's momentum and leveraging a strong kick to his adversary's face.

Firth stumbled back in pain as the storm intensified, tripping in a patch of mud and falling to the ground. Vespasian roared in rage, swinging his rapier over his head and angling it down towards Firth's prone body.

Sam leapt back into the fray, desperate not to lose another ally. She parried Vespasian's blow a foot away from Firth's body, straining her muscles against the much larger man's strength. Vespasian stomped on Firth's neck, pressing his screaming sword into Sam's weapon and forcing his face to mere inches from her own.

"Always so protective," he hissed, his voice alien against the storm's gathering howl. "I would have broken you today, but you sent your two little friends away. Don't worry, Samantha; I'll find them next time – and when I do, _then_ I will crush your spirit. _Then _you'll learn what it means to harness your anger."

Vespasian head-butted Sam's forehead, stepping back as she recoiled in shock. He caught a glimpse of Thresh running at him full speed, stopping to take a brief glance at the inky skies above before diving back into the dark jungle. Sam saw just a flash of lightning off his prosthetic before Vespasian disappeared, veiled by the rainforest's depths.

"The coward flees!" Thresh roared as he came to a stop, panting with adrenaline as rain slapped his face. "A pointless exercise."

Sam struggled to get up against the storm's winds, her voice barely audible over the intensifying wind: "We have to get out of the storm!"

Thresh seemed to laugh at the notion: "It is rain, District 10. It does not poison you."

"She's right," Firth wiped mud off his forehead as rain flattened his bronze hair into a limp mop. "We have to get out of this. There's no telling what's going to come."

Thresh sighed, nodding his head. "I noticed a cave in the rock face near the pool. To there we go – come."

Sam paused before following the other two, letting her eyes fall on Cal's motionless body nearby. Her thoughts fell back on the kiss of the prior night, the feeling lit in her gut by his lips – she couldn't leave him! There was always a chance Artemis's arrow hadn't done him in; a chance he could still be alive…

"Sam!" Firth tugged on her arm as a blast of thunder roared. "We have to go! Come on!"

She fought back tears as she followed Firth, tossing one last look at Cal's corpse. In a flash of lighting, Sam could have sworn she saw someone crouching over his body – someone tall, powerful, and brawny. One thing stood out more than anything else – he wasn't the same sort of spirit that Sam saw in her visions of Storm. No, this man was real – _very_ real.

There was something familiar about him.

* * *

**District 10**

A light drizzle rained down on the prairie of District 10 as daylight fell into night. Gray blankets of stratus clouds drowned the sky in a melancholy sea. Down on the dusty plains, however, something far more drastic was building.

Clay sat in the Old Butcher Cellar, his index fingers tipped in red paint made from berries. Two red streaks already ran from his forehead to his jaw, shrouding each of his eyes in the crimson stripes. He drew the third one with careful position, angling a final streak from his hairline straight down the middle of his nose. The crimson line stopped just between his eyes, giving Sam's oldest friend the appearance of an avenging warrior – far removed from the happy days on the forest lake, where nothing but friendship and the warmth of the sun mattered.

Now, everything was at stake.

"Mmm," Abilene put her arms on his shoulders, her red hair falling down about him. "The look suits you."

"Does it?" Clay looked straight ahead as he finished, wiping his finger on his trousers.

"Cronus would be proud of you if he were still with us," Abilene murmured with a smile. "Shame we couldn't have a little more fun before this…but your ex is providing a nice diversion as she cries her eyes out on all those Games screens. Think she's crying for you?"

Clay smirked. "Which number boyfriend is she on now?"

"Eight? I don't know. I don't watch."

Some small, neglected part of Clay immediately felt bad for his comment. That tiny piece of his soul still cared for Sam – still hoped she'd make it out of the arena, prayed she'd emerge alive and well. He'd seen glimpses of her earlier, tromping around a dark cavern with the girl from District 4. Somehow through all the pain, Sam was still the sweet girl he'd always remembered – still looking out for others, still forgetting about her own well-being given the opportunity to help another.

The rest of him didn't care. She was in league with the _Capitol_, guilt through association.

"And so _you _are gonna lead tonight?" Clay broke in to Abilene as he stood up, cracking a vertebrae through stretching. "Sounds like a lot of responsibility now that Cronus is gone."

"Oh, no," Abilene smiled. "I'll be right with you when we hit the third phase. A bunch of us will – I just have the lead through the first part. Jesus, Clay, don't get all weepy on me."

He laughed. "No chance."

"Good," Abilene remarked as she picked up a throwing knife, clutching the blade between her thumb and forefinger. "It's amazing what the idiot Peacekeepers don't find out. They'll find out tonight."

"That they will," Clay chuckled, hefting a similar knife. "Are you ready?"

"Of course. You?"

"Never better. Remember, it'll be easy going until we hit the square; they've got the machine guns in there. We'll need to clear past that to reach the third stage."

"Won't be a problem," Clay twisted the knife in his hand. "Let's get going, then."

"So eager," Abilene smiled.

She pushed open the hatch to the Cellar, letting in the soft rain from the darkening evening. A thick hand helped Abilene up and out onto the flat ground as Clay followed her up, sheathing his knife in his belt. All around in the poplar grove stood more than four hundred people – all dressed in various poor garb indicative of the Slaughterhouse and Dairy Wards. All wore the same three red stripes that Abilene and Clay had painted on their faces.

All would fight in the name of the Vox Plebeius.

"Brothers, sisters, comrades," Abilene stood up in front of the crowd, casting a look towards the town square five hundred meters away. "Tonight we fight for what we have trained to do for so long. Tonight we take back what is rightfully ours. _Tonight_, our voice will be heard!"

A loud cry went up from the crowd – they no longer cared who lived or died, whether they were found or not before attacking. They were zealots, locked in their idealist struggle and ready to lay down their lives for their cause.

"It's time," Abilene smiled at Clay. "Let's go."

The procession got going quickly, walking at a fast gait as huge screens in District 10's square played nonstop footage of the Hunger Games. Clay felt his heart rate rise rapidly, his skin sweating profusely despite the light rain as he and the rest of the Vox contingent here tonight closed. The barrels of roof-mounted machine guns just became visible as Abilene stopped the group two hundred meters away – just the distance where the Peacekeeper enforcers in the square would begin to take notice that this sleepy night wasn't so calm, after all.

"Not one step back!" Abilene shouted, her shrill voice piercing over the din of the Games footage. "Our voice is heard!"

"_Uuraa! Uuraa! Uuuuuuraaaaaaaa!"_ the Vox warriors screamed as a battle cry, pulling out impromptu weapons and charging into a full sprint towards the square.

Clay didn't even have time to think as his feet pounded the ground. District 10's earth whipped in a blur under his feet as he charged with the rest, his knife in his hand and ready to kill. His eyes reached up to the building tops as he ran, catching a glimpse of panicking Peacekeepers desperately struggling to turn their mounted machine guns around in shock. Surprise had won the day – he knew it. Abilene knew it. Now he felt the thrill of sure victory – of conquest over the enemy!

_Pat-pat-pat!_ One of the Peacekeeper gun nests moved into position, opening up with a hail of bullets as tracer fire lit up the night. Screams from the civilian crowd in the square rang out as the innocents caught between two opposing forces ran in all directions. The chaos tilted the balance further in the Vox's favor, ripping apart the fragile order the Peacekeepers had hoped to attain. Bullets ripped into the ground near Clay, taking down two of the Vox zealots next to him and spitting blood into the air.

_Martyrs – not to worry!_

Abilene had foretold victory. A few deaths would only further the cause.

The square opened up around Clay as he burst through the lines of fleeing civilians. Peacekeepers had begun to form up, but they were hopelessly outnumbered – only about thirty were on station here in the evening, with the rest spread out through the various residential districts for viewing purposes. They hadn't at all suspected that a riotous army of idealists would come roaring out of the _woods_, of all places.

Clay threw all of Abilene's training into one moment and hurled his knife. The blade spun through the air as it homed in on a Peacekeeper, seemingly suspended in slow-motion as it hurtled end-over-end.

_Splunk!_ The tip hit true, digging into the Peacekeeper's vulnerable neck and ripping apart veins and arteries. The Capitol enforcer fell to the ground, his eyes on shock as his body belched up its precious lifeblood. Clay didn't take the time to mourn his death, grabbing the Peacekeeper's assault rifle and training it on a group of three more of the Capitol's finest who came rushing in. Without a further thought, he depressed the trigger.

_Spat-spat-spat!_ Bullets ripped out from the barrel of the gun, cutting through the weak plate armor of the lead member of the Peacekeeper squad. Clay hadn't expected the recoil as his gun rose, struggling to control the sensation of power. As the remaining two Peacekeepers trained their guns on him, he felt a moment of fleeting fear before acceptance washed over it – if now was his time to die, so be it.

_Thunk! Thunk!_

Two well-aimed knives dug their way into the Peacekeepers, spitting scarlet blood across the rain-soaked streets.

"Come on," Abilene panted as she emerged, her face caked in mud and sweat as she grabbed one of the Peaacekeeper's weapons. "Third stage, Clay. Let's go."

Clay caught a fleeting glimpse of two Vox members hurling Molotovs into the square's bakery. What was the point of that? All they were doing was killing off a few innocents who had likely huddled up inside…heck, he had been in that bakery, talked to the little daughter of the baker when he and Sam had gone in to buy bread. They were probably in there burning to death right now.

They were rich, however. They – like the ranchers – were in collusion with the Capitol, most likely. It was the only explanation; the Vox wouldn't just _kill_ innocents for no reason.

"Come on," Abilene had noticed his eyes wandering off. "You and I are gonna make some history tonight."

Clay raised his weapon with renewed purpose – she was right. He'd let his mind track off into unrelated purposes; who cared about some lazy baker making money off the backs of the poor, anyway? He deserved to die, the parasite scum. So did his little daughter.

So did everyone who had held them down for this long.

Peacekeepers began rushing into the square, but they were reacting to what had already happened – not the next phase of the plan. Clay and Abilene rushed out of the burning merchant sector to the sound of bullets, sprinting towards the now-emptied Peacekeeper barracks. The Capitol police had done exactly as they'd expected. In their haste to contain the violence, they'd forgotten _all_ about their now-vulnerable hovercraft.

A bulky Vox member kicked open the gate to the barracks, receiving a hail of gunfire to his chest as a welcome. Abilene pushed past the dying man, taking out a Peacekeeper with a round before scrambling for cover. Clay followed her in, diving behind a wall.

"Plans?" he gasped, clutching his weapon tightly. How many rounds did this ammo drum have?

"Up and to the right," Abilene huffed, taking a few seconds to catch her breath as she reloaded. "Stay behind me, Clay."

Abilene rounded a corner, her red hair flying in Clay's face as she pumped her legs as fast as they would go. More Vox members – different from the original group, having waited for the initial attack before joining – stormed the compound, overwhelming a small guard of Peacekeepers with sheer numbers. Gunfire and screams scorched Clay's ears as he sprinted for the parked hovercraft, his gun lazily at his side as he focused only on speed.

Abilene popped a trio of shots at a nearby Peacekeeper, smiling in glee as scarlet puffs shot out of his chest. She yanked open the lower hatch of the hovercraft, exposing the sterile interior of the craft. As Clay boarded, gun at the ready, Abilene looked down in delight at the green-lit communicator on her wrist.

"I just got a ping from Thanatos," she said excitedly.

"Who?" Clay asked.

"Thanatos. He's our leader now that Cronus is gone," Abilene spoke quickly, her voice reflecting her giddiness of the moment. "He's taken the main armory in District 1. We're on _great_ pace! C'mon, let's get the cockpit."

Clay sealed the hatch behind them, rushing forward with Abilene to the main controls of the hovercraft. She sat down in the pilot's chair like a natural, her hands flying over haptic controls as if she'd been trained all her life for this.

"Cronus taught me before he was martyred," Abilene explained briefly as she hit several blinking indicators. "I can get us airborne. Get on that control over there."

"What do I do?" Clay looked down at his station. A number of glowing computer consoles stared back at him, all surrounding a rectangular grid lit up with blue and red triangular dots. Dozens of glowing green icons surrounded the grid, each labeled with a different symbol. "I didn't train for this, Abilene."

She reached over, punching one of the symbols and bringing up a three-dimensional grid of the outside environment on the rectangular interface. "It's easy. You just point on that grid at the red triangles and hit that orange-lit glowing button when you scroll over them. I'll upload the data."

"Yeah, but…" Clay looked at the grid as a new wave of red holographic triangles appeared on the screen. "What is it?"

"Weapons."

Unlike Sam, Clay had never flown and was unprepared for the shuddering of the craft as it lifted off. Abilene's hands flicked over the haptic interfaces like hummingbirds, moving holograms from place to place with the skill and speed of a ballerina. The clear viewscreen at the front of the cockpit glowed with the white internal light as giant spotlights illuminated the ground below. Several white-armored Peacekeepers looked to be cheering, expecting the hovercraft to be their much-needed backup as Vox zealots swarmed the square and surrounding Wards.

"Once you see them, take them out," Abilene said with a certain thrill in her voice. "If you hit anybody else, don't sweat it. Just get the Peacekeepers."

Clay noticed a number of blue icons around the red on his grid – but hey, Abilene knew what she was doing. He swung his finger over the red triangles on his interface just as she'd said, reached for the orange button she'd pointed out, and clicked.

_WHUMP-WHUMP-WHUMP!_

The hovercraft's under-slung 40mm cannons erupted in a blaze of gunfire. Shock filled the Peacekeepers' face as they died, ripped to bits in a storm of steel. Bits of human flew about as Clay unleashed the full power of the Capitol's air force on the very people who had designed it, tearing into Peacekeepers and frantic civilians alike.

"Yes!" Abilene screamed in delight as she kept the hovercraft moving forward, her hands zipping by to update Clay's targeting. "Keep it up!"

The cockpit viewscreen focused in on fleeing white-armored figures as Clay bracketed them in the targeting matrix, clicking the orange icon and opening fire. 40mm shots tore apart the prairie ground as the Peacekeepers ran, ripping into their ranks like a swarm of hornets. Abilene switched over several controls, bringing up a red holographic imager and clicking the button. Eight high-explosive rockets zipped out of the hovercraft's weapons pods, screaming off in different directions and sending dismembered Peacekeeper bodies flying every which way.

Abilene sat back in her seat, watching in glory as the Vox's plans fell into place. Several hundred bodies littered the streets and fields of District 10, shredded by the initial spate of violence, torn apart by the second, larger wave of Vox reinforcements, or ripped to bits by Abilene and Clay's hovercraft commandeering.

The Vox couldn't have planned a better opening attack on the district.

"We did it," Abilene breathed, her eyes full of fire as she looked back at Clay with a smile. "Our voice was heard. We killed them."

Ecstasy filled Clay's gut, but one nagging thought hit him – the tiny, forgotten piece of his spirit that had concerned him earlier when he had thought about Sam. It was her voice again, speaking from somewhere far away and looking at what he'd done with a much different light than the black-and-white morality Abilene saw.

_You killed all those people. You killed Peacekeepers and innocents without a second thought. You're not some freedom fighter, Clay. You're a terrorist. You're a murderer._

Abilene's cries of joy quickly wiped away those lingering doubts, and Clay gave in to success.


	26. Moments of Truth

_**A/N: Love the strong sentiments about Clay/Cal/Firth that I've generated, heh. Now I understand the Finnick reactions after Mockingjay…**_

* * *

Fierce rain slashed down through the jungle canopy, drenching everything in sight with a torrential downpour. The storm sent up a steady hum of noise, drowning out the chirps and cries of animals and birds that had previously lit the forest with vibrancy. Rain had transformed the jungle from its lush greens and browns into a matte gray, obscuring any glimpse of color in a neutral world. To Sam, the storm – and the events preceding it – had drained the arena out of whatever hope had remained.

She sat at the back of the cave Thresh had found, her legs curled up against her chest and her arms wrapped about her ankles. Her ponytail hung limply over her right shoulder, still damp from the storm despite the hours the three tributes had spent away from its onslaught. Sam felt a curtain of misery and hollowness falling around her, gutting her spirit and fight and rendering her an empty soul. Cal's death and Vespasian's fight had ripped the heart right out of her chest.

Firth sat down nearby, leaning back against the rock face and watching the howling wind and rain outside.

"Sam…" he started, trying to move in close.

"No," she pulled away, her eyes remaining downcast. "Everyone who's gotten close to me just goes away in the end. Don't."

"Hey," Firth said quietly. "Look, Sam, I'm not so good at this stuff…but don't blame yourself for what happened out there or before. We're all just trying to make it through this thing."

Sam burrowed her head, unable to look up. "I can't, can I? Each district can take two out. You and River are both still alive…you can both come out. Now it's just me for District 10. I can't live with myself if I make more people die for my sake."

"Your concern is misplaced," Thresh squatted near the cave's entrance, his figure dark and shadowy against the rainy backdrop of the opening. "Concern yourself with _you_, District 10. The time to worry about outcomes is not now."

"He's right," Firth said hesitantly. "Maybe a little _blunt_, but right. We'll figure something out, Sam. We'll get out of here together. I promise."

Sam looked up, her face halfway between a scowl and a sarcastic grin. "You can't keep that promise. I told Gannet the same thing and she died on my behalf."

"Yeah, well," Firth replied with a wry smile. "I'm a little better at plans than you, huh?"

"I'm not good at anything," Sam sulked, her words devoid of her usual personality. "I don't want to do this anymore."

"Whoa, hey," Firth backed off. "Don't say that. You're not some mindless killing machine, nor are you already dead. Keep your head up, Sam."

"Why?" Sam fired back. "Why? I'm supposed to be some killer in this dumb arena. That's what they stick us all in here for; to kill each other. They'd probably love it if I just went and killed everyone right now. They'd probably get a kick out of it. Then maybe I'd be free from all this; maybe I'd finally stop being so alone, with everyone looking down at me like I'm some kind of animal. Vespasian, the President, even my entire _district_ thinks I'm dirt."

Sam lost control of her surging emotions, breaking down in tears in an all-too-familiar rush of hopelessness. "Everyone leaves. Gannet, Clara, Clay, Storm…and now Cal. Everyone. _Everyone_."

"Not this time," Firth pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her sobbing frame. "Not this time, okay? We're not going to let any Gamesmakers or other people take another one of us."

"How are you going to do that?" Sam sniffed, limply leaning into him. "Eventually there has to be an end, and I can't kill you or River, and I'm not going to let anybody touch Lily…if they're even still alive. I sent them away as you started fighting; they're probably already dead and it'll be all my fault and-"

"Don't you worry," Firth tried to calm her down. "Please, Sam. Trust me; things will work out. We'll be fine. Just stay close with us."

"I'm sorry," Sam whimpered. "I'm a mess. I can't even control myself."

She laid her head on Firth's chest, leaving all her exhaustion and mental wear to simmer away as she closed her eyes, consciousness slipping away.

Sleep ensued.

* * *

**The Hive, Capitol**

Trajan slipped past a pair of Peacekeepers as he made his way to the Nexus's elevator system, garnering snarly looks from the two white-clad enforcers. The situation out of District 1 and District 10 was getting worse by the hour; the Vox had unleashed a full-on populist revolt. The insurgency had only been fluttering rumors and snippets of information here and there before; now it had broken open into much worse. Talk of similar movements in District 4 and District 12 spread like a wildfire about the Nexus, infecting the lips of every Peacekeeper and even treading into the talk amongst the black-clad Centurions.

Still, the Vox and the Games together presented Trajan with a great opportunity.

"Nero!" he flexed his arms, pointing at the chief of staff as the two caught sight of each other. "With me, down! Marius is waiting."

"I hope your plans are in order," the dark member of Octavian's cabinet scoffed. "We cannot afford to waste an opportunity so."

Trajan rubbed his neck in irritation, his fingers grazing upon his delta tattoos. Nero had the resources to aid in the coup, but working with the man presented all sorts of mental hurdles. "You'll be briefed with the rest of the assault teams."

"I hope so, Commander."

The elevator shot the two down on a silent ride, rocketing hundreds of feet below the surface as it cut through rock and earth. A shudder went through the cab as it reached the lowest level, right at the center of the Hive. The doors opened with a quiet hiss of air, revealing a tall, well-built man confronting Trajan and Nero with a pair of coal-black eyes.

"Commander. Chief," Nihlus smiled with false pleasantries. "Again, you seemed surprised to see me."

"Your little word games won't play with _me_, Nihlus," Nero hissed, his voice reeking of disdain. "Take them somewhere else."

"No," Trajan broke the two up with authority. "Both of you follow me to the briefing room."

Several hundred Centurions blotted out the fine wood paneling of the briefing room as Trajan stepped in, pulling up his gray uniform's sleeves. Marius stood tall beside the holoimager in the center of the room, his hands clasped behind his back and his chin held high. A certain undercurrent of vibrancy coursed throughout the room; the Vox's actions had shaken up the established order, but everyone knew what else was at stake.

"Bring it up," Trajan barked at Marius as he strode forward.

On cue, a bright flare of light brought forth a great holographic map of the Capitol. Thousands of lines snaked beneath the three-dimensional representation of the city, representing the numerous maintenance shafts, connector tunnels, and shipping routes in and out of key areas of the metropolis. Red dots littered the grid – Peacekeepers.

Conveniently, not a single white-armored figure was present in the Hive. They would never know until it was too late.

"Alright," Trajan called out loudly, his voice immediately commanding attention from his Centurions. Nihlus took a seat near the rear, his nightmarish eyes happily scanning each and every face within the briefing room. "Hovercraft are taking Peacekeepers out to the districts as we speak, diluting their numbers here. You all know what we're doing; tomorrow morning, a strike force led by Chief Nero and myself will hit the Sprawl detention facility, breaking former Head Gamesmaker Phaeston Rex out of confinement."

Blue arrows weaved their way through the tunnels and streets of the Capitol, marking attack routes and Centurion platoons as Trajan spoke. "We will fight our way through the maintenance shafts, moving from the Sprawl to the transit hub and breaking aboveground in the Forum. From there, we'll hit the Presidential Mansion without even setting foot in City Center. We'll take out any Inquisitors inside and kill President Octavian, installing Rex in his position and restoring the order and stability we need to knock back Octavian's litany of executive failures. We'll crush the Vox once that's happened, bringing Panem back to where it needs to be – and the pinnacle of human civilization."

"At the same time," Trajan went on, diverting back to military strategy and away from the grand scheme. "Quintus and Lucius will lead troops aboveground, hitting electronic and cyber centers as well as delaying Peacekeeper or Inquisitor reinforcements from striking our teams underground. That's where most of you will be."

"Finally," Trajan concluded his quick brief, hitting on the last target his men needed to know. "Nihlus over here will remotely hack into the Inquisitor central cyber suite, taking control of the Sentries in the city and launching a frontal attack on both the Peacekeeper barracks downtown as well as securing the Games Control Center and the City Center. He'll be responsible for ensuring the Forum is clear when Nero and I hit the Mansion with Rex."

"People are going to die," Trajan finished on a blunt note. "Not everyone makes it back safely from this. We're outnumbered, outgunned. Octavian's forces will be everywhere and on high alert after the Vox's terror strikes in the districts. But we are better trained; we're disciplined, smart, and capable. I have the utmost faith in each and every one of you to _do your duty_ to Panem – and to yourselves. Tonight – reconnoiter with your respective squad leaders, have a meal, get some rest. We launch at 0600."

There was no cheering within the briefing room; no cries of battle or thrill. The Centurions were professional soldiers, not the poorly-trained police units of the Peacekeepers or the death squads of the Inquisitors. They would do their duty and handle soldiering with every honor the profession deserved.

"I hope you know what you're doing," Trajan confronted Nihlus as the quick meeting broke up. "You'll be taking the brunt of the Inquisitors in your attack."

Nihlus merely smiled in return, an underlying sinister taint in his expression. "Your worry will give you an _ulcer_, Commander. We each have a part to play. I understand mine."

Something in his words raised the hairs on Trajan's back. He ignored the sensation, nodding to Nihlus before finally speaking to Marius.

"You want me to join the surface attack?" the Legate asked. "We'll have little air cover. They'll need leadership."

"No," Trajan replied quickly. "I need you for something else. I've drawn up contingency plans and sent them to your communicator…should we be overwhelmed, this coup will fall to you. Octavian _can't_ be allowed to continue leading Panem. He'll kill us all off with his stupidity; if we die, Rex, Nero, and the rest of us, I'm going to need you to take what ground and air forces we have here and retreat to our base near District 11. Rumor has it the Vox are dormant there. Put as much distance as you can between the Capitol and your air group if it comes to that; you'll need to regroup and do the unthinkable."

Marius chuckled as he leaned against the holoimager, his face looking old in the haunting blue light of the map. "All-out civil war?"

"If it comes to that," Trajan nodded gravely. "If blood is what will save our civilization, that's what we must shed."

"I hope that's a very last option," Marius mused.

"Absolutely. I'll send a kill-signal if we fail; if you get that, don't hesitate. Slaughter any Peacekeepers that remain in here, scramble all the databanks, and get the fliers out of here and headed East. We're low on hovercraft since they've been dispatched by Octavian, but we have fixed-wing and helos. More than enough to make a dent if we die and you need to fight."

"A fight against the Peacekeepers _and_ a zealous Vox? You're asking a lot, Commander."

"A lot is on the line," the Commander sighed, his voice growing heavy. "We're out of options, Marius. It's kill or be killed for Panem."

* * *

**The Arena**

The clear skies of an orange dawn had just broken through the jungle as Sam opened her eyes from troubled sleep. Firth still had his arm wrapped about her as he snoozed against the rock wall. Thresh slept near the entrance, his body curled into a squat that could explode into action at a moment's notice.

Sam didn't have that energy. She couldn't even go back to sleep; the dreams of the dead had troubled her.

She wriggled out of Firth's embrace, careful not to wake either of her sleeping companions as she tiptoed her way to the cave entrance. Warm, humid air blew in from the clear morning, signaling a return to the heat and blue skies of before the storm. Out of the corner of Sam's eye, a glint of silver piqued her vision.

A parachute!

A large package came floating down, clearly holding an array of objects. It came to a stop near the mouth of the cave as Sam rushed over to open the much-needed gifts. Wealthy sponsors had contributed heavily to the alliance's well-being: The package contained an assortment of supplies, including a short scythe, two long daggers, a parcel of food, and an extra pair of thick socks. Sam happily snatched the socks for herself, figuring Thresh and Firth could find better uses with the weapons. The food was easily split, of course – and just in time. Her stomach had begun rumbling once more, angrily craving sustenance after several days of poor nutrition.

Sam left the parachute's contents in the cave, stepping back outside to watch the sunrise fill the skies with color. Red and yellow radiated out in artistic streaks above her, shining golden light down upon the jungle floor. Sam felt an odd sense of peace wash over her – as if the wrongs of yesterday had washed away with the storm.

The feeling quickly disintegrated.

A powerful hand grabbed hold of Sam's throat as she had her eyes closed, snatching her up into the air. She gasped for air as she opened her eyes, looking down upon the offender.

Storm's corpse-like body glared up at her, his empty eye sockets and glowing, gaping mouth raging with anger and hate. Moisture rippled off his glossy white skin in little streams, dripping onto the wet earth in small splashes. His hair had mottled into a gray mess, pressed down into his scalp with rainwater and sweat.

"_Moment of truth, Sam!_ _Why do you keep battling your past? Why can't you accept me for what I am? Do I have to squeeze the life out of you before you grapple with your inner demons?"_

Sam choked against Storm's grip, her eyes bulging with fear and shock. She clawed at his arms, doing nothing against his corpse-like stature.

"_Am I a mutt, a Gamesmaker delusion? Or am I your guilt and fear of loss, stifling your every thought with the crushing weight of my death? Decision time, Sam! What am I?"_

"I-" Sam gasped, finding her words as Storm's grasp loosened around her throat. "I can't lose you, Storm. I've already lost everything else. I can't let go of you now."

Storm lowered his head, his mouth shutting with a final snap. He let go of Sam, letting her fall to the ground as she gasped for breath. Sam lowered her head for a moment, choking and spitting on the earth before looking back up.

Storm had changed before her eyes. No longer did the corpse with the eye-less sockets stare at her with pain and anger. Instead, the boy she'd loved in her first Games stood tall and strong in front of her, a familiar smile playing across his lips. He looked as if he'd never died, the same gray-eyed kid from District 12 she'd known two years ago.

"Realization," Storm said softly. "You're brave, Sammy. You're ready."

"Ready for what?" Sam gasped.

"To end this," Storm replied. "We'll be together again, Sam. It's almost time for you to shine with all those stars. I'll be with you to the end."

He stepped behind a nearby tree, slipping out of Sam's sight as she got back to her feet.

"Storm?" she called out. "Where'd you go?"

She didn't get the answer she wanted. The sound of trumpets blazed out across the arena instead of Storm's voice, sounding forth to welcome in Claudius Templesmith's words.

"_Greetings, tributes_," Claudius announced. "_There is something special in this year's Quell. You have noticed the force field following you across the rainforest. Tomorrow at noon it will reach its end, killing any and all tributes in the arena. However, you have a way out. The largest stone temple in this historic setting holds the key to stopping the field before all is lost; activate that key, and your lives will be spared. You have until high noon tomorrow; good luck."_

Sam's eyes caught a giant pillar of light shining up into infinity from the West, marking the Games' target. The Gamesmakers had played their hand – they _had _been hearding everyone to one final destination; one climactic showdown to decide a winner through violence by forcing everyone into a meat grinder.

Storm was right. Most likely, Sam would soon be with him among the stars.


	27. Breakout

Buttermilk clouds floated lazily in the blue tropical sky as Sam, Firth, and Thresh made their way through the jungle. The force field advanced faster now, encroaching with an inevitable speed that promised an unsightly death should they fail to stop it. The verdant cries of animals and insects only drew the mind away temporarily from that hanging sword, looming like a specter of death over the arena's head.

The _boom!_ of the cannon – once, twice! – broke up Sam's tension with the draining power of fear.

"Oh God," she bemoaned, stopping and leaning against a tree once the two sounds roared. "Two…and I just left them…"

"Hey," Firth moved in slowly, careful not to rush her with Sam's emotions rushing in every direction. "I'm sure Lily and River are alright. There's still other tributes out there, remember."

"No, Firth," Sam panicked, her eyes shut tightly in anguish. "They're just little…what was I thinking?"

"River can handle herself," he tried to re-assure her. "Sam, there's nothing we can do anyway here. C'mon. We'll find them eventually."

"He is correct," Thresh hit the side of a banyan tree with his scythe in frustration of Sam's mood swings. "You waste our time whimpering over those who would be dead anyway, District 10. This is a game of death. I would have figured you had understood that."

"What a nice way of putting it," Sam spat back, angry at his blunt way of chiding her. "I don't just _kill_ people for the sake of doing it."

"Then you are a fool," Thresh sneered, a ploy to get Sam on her feet. "I must wonder how you survived in the first place, District 10."

Sam took the bait, pounding the tree with her fist and making a face at her ally. She picked up her rapier, whipping it through a swath of leaves and moving on.

"Whoa, Sam," Firth's usual good-natured humor didn't work in the tinderbox alliance held together by a thread, forcing him to play peacemaker between the two sniping tributes. "Don't-"

"I don't want to talk right now!" she snapped at him. "Leave me alone, Firth."

"Okay, okay," he held up his hands in defeat, falling back towards Thresh as Sam cut through the jungle's vines alone.

Why did he have to be so frustrating – and why was he taking Thresh's side? It was obvious Firth wanted _something_ out of her – whether or not that was genuine love, she didn't know. He wasn't the type that Storm was, legitimately seeking to share his heart with her. No, Firth – like his dad – was just another guy trying to get whatever was at hand. He'd so quickly abandoned Clara after last year's games, after all. He could certainly do it to her, too.

Why did she feel a tingle in her stomach when he was around, then? Especially when Storm was still calling her name – asking her to join him, to come for him?

_Dammit, Sammy. You're always getting stuck in these things_.

She trudged through the viridian catacombs of the rainforest, trying to put thoughts of Firth and Storm out of her head. The images that replaced them were far worse – misguided fears of River and Lily already dead and in pine boxes, processed and ready to be shipped back to Districts 4 and 12 respectively. Why had she let them go? Despite what Firth said, there was no _way_ River was ready to confront what the other tributes had in store for them. Lily was even worse – she'd be dead inside of five seconds against Vespasian.

Something primal in Sam's gut had stirred in regards to the two younger tributes of the alliance. She found herself caring for more than just her own sense of survival and craving of companionship. Sam had felt some of this with Gannet, but her second time in the arena – especially after failing Clara and Waco the year before – had elevator her protective instincts to a fever pitch. She couldn't fail again; not with the guilt of Storm and Clara that already weighed on her.

_And if I do, they'll be the next ones to haunt me from the shadows. _

Sam didn't get time to cross-examine her conscience. As she sliced her way through another patch of labyrinthine flora, an out-of-place blotch of crimson caught the corner of her eye. She bent down, kicking a small pool of blood with her foot – still fresh, a recent kill.

_Oh no, I'm too late! The hovercraft already got them!_

"River!" Sam yelled uncontrollably, panic rising in her gut as she tossed aside all control. "Lily! Please!"

"Wait! Sam!" Firth's voice barely reached her ears from somewhere behind her. "Someone-"

She didn't have time to hear the rest. A small flash of brown hurtled out of the jungle, smacking Sam in the torso and driving her to the ground. She lost her grip on her rapier, letting the weapon fall to the ground as she hit the earth with a painful _thud_. A thin figure straddled her with a blunt, thick weapon in hand, rushing in a kaleidoscope of movement above Sam. She closed her eyes, holding her arms above her head in a desperation move to protect herself from the inevitable.

"Oh – jeez! Sorry. Hi."

Sam opened her eyes slowly. River sat atop her waist, a sharpened rock in her hand. Fresh blood coated the implement, with blotted crimson streaks also adorning the girl's muddy face. Her hair splayed in every direction below the shoulder, matted with even more blood that slowly dried in the oppressive humidity of the jungle. Her mouth turned up in an awkward smile, caught between the energy of attack and the shock of realizing who she'd almost struck in anger.

"Um," River stuttered. "Yeah…Lily, it's Sam and the others!"

A small, blonde-haired head peeped out from between banyan boughs, hesitant to make a move until the coast was clear. Lily slowly crept out from the underbrush,

"Wha…" Sam murmured, still surprised by River's ferocity.

"Did you…hit her?" Lily squeaked at River.

"No!" River defended herself. "I mean, not yet."

Firth and Thresh ran up, each with a weapon in hand. Thresh broke out in derisive laughter after watching River step off Sam's prone body, finding the entire scene some sort of entertaining comedy.

"What the hell are you doing?" Firth asked River aggressively.

"Hey!" Sam spoke up, finding her wits. "It's just an accident. Calm down."

"Whoa, really?" Firth waved a hand at her in dismissal. "I try to back you up and I get yelled at, and she attacks you and it's cool. Okay. Whatever."

Sam wiped dirt off her jumpsuit, getting up on one knee and appraising River and Lily's looks with a worried eye. "Is…is that your blood?"

"No. I killed that guy from District 1," River tossed her blood-coated rock to the ground. "He wasn't really paying attention."

"See?!" Firth continued complaining. "I said, 'she can handle herself.' You never listen to me. 'Ooohhhh, River's gonna get eaten by an earthworm,' yeah. Sure."

River kicked a clod of dirt sheepishly, sticking her hands in her pockets as Sam got up. "So…are we supposed to be running away from the force field now, or something?"

* * *

**The Sprawl – Capitol**

_Clank!_

A steel air vent fell to the floor of the white-walled high-tech prison of the Capitol, bouncing once off the corrugated floor before resting in a corner. A pair of black boots hit the floor less than second after, making nary a sound. A dozen other boots hit the ground immediately afterwards, flooding out of the silver ventilation pipes of the Sprawl without regard for disrupting the décor.

Trajan pulled a military-grade assault rifle off his back, checking his loaded ammunition magazine after ensuring the corridor was clear. He switched off the holographic scope mounted on the weapon's dorsal grip, lofting it single-handedly as he appraised the situation. A dark gray suit of ballistics armor covered him from neck to knee, shielding his soft, meaty parts with high-grade ceramic protection while giving his limbs plenty of flexibility to move and react in combat.

"Nero!" Trajan barked, turning about at the similarly-armored subordinate to his rear. "Rex's cell block is two hallways down. You hold the nearest four-way passage; I'll go with two others and open his cell. Weapons free."

Nero smirked. "You worry too much, _Commander_."

"Perhaps for good reason," Trajan muttered to himself, rubbing his rough, unshaven chin. He still couldn't bring himself to trust Octavian's Chief of Staff.

Trajan pointed out two of his troops, nodding at them to follow and taking off down a corridor. He had to act fast – Peacekeepers would be patrolling up and down these hallways, and if they hadn't picked out the intrusion on local security networks, they soon would.

He didn't have to wait very long. Crossing into a nearby hallway and checking his corners, Trajan heard the familiar _pat-pat-pat_ of magnetically-thrown automatic bullets hurled from rifle barrels. Several screams told him what he needed to know in an instant – Nero and the troops were finding their marks.

His men wouldn't have screamed.

"_Trajan!"_ Nero barked over the commander's wrist-mounted communicator. "_Engaged a platoon coming from the other sector. Must have been teed off by the security grid_."

"Then Nihlus hasn't hit home yet," Trajan muttered bitterly. "Alright, keep them busy. I'm almost to Rex."

"_You take care of your end. I'm not sweating anything but bullets._"

As soon as Nero finished his comm, a quake nearly shook Trajan off his feet as the entire underground complex shuddered. Nihlus and the aboveground squads had begun their surface attack on the Capitol – _good_. It would buy them time down in this subterranean prison.

Trajan hit the next hallway, nearly running face-first into a Peacekeeper bounding around the corner. The commander didn't hesitate, unfurling a gauntlet knife and plunging the short, sturdy blade straight into his opponent's throat. The Peacekeeper's weak armor didn't offer any protection, turning a bright shade of scarlet as the officer's carotid artery spit up blood all over both combatants. Trajan let the sputtering man go as one of his squadmates hit the Peacekeeper's companion with a well-placed burst of fire, downing the combatant instantly.

The commander didn't have time to think things over. A loud _bang_ filled the corridor with smoke as something large landed from a ventilation shaft behind the three soldiers. A broad, black shape stood up on two spindly legs, croaking with metallic sounds and unloosing a hail of automatic gunfire. Trajan and one of his subordinates had just enough time to get down as the third member of the squad took the brunt of the fire, shredded to pieces by the hail of bullets.

"Sentry!" Trajan swore, grabbing his remaining squadmate and handing him a small silver cylinder. "Wait for it to close, then plant and run! I'll secure Rex!"

The Centurion nodded, his dark helmet visor blacking out his face as he grabbed the object – a sticky grenade equipped with a powerful explosive charge. The hulking Sentry advanced its black, tumor-ridden cyborg appearance terrifying in the small confines of the underground prison's white hallways. A dark mask of keratin and chromed steel hid whatever poor soul's face had gone into the abomination's creation, sheathing the hybrid of man and war machine in a death's-head visage of smiling terror. Its black armor barely hid the pulpy, gelatinous organs below, squishing their way out of the steel exoskeleton through the numerous cancerous lesions dotting the bipedal monster.

"Go!" Trajan barked at his soldier, firing a concussion grenade from his rifle's under-barrel grenade tube and taking off towards the cell block. The Sentry stepped back with the rush of light and sound from the explosion, giving the Centurion just enough time to plant the grenade on the metal beast's armor and take off running.

Trajan didn't look back at the sound of a fiery explosion, keeping his head down and feet moving as licking heat lapped at his neck and shaven head. He silently cursed himself for skipping out on a helmet, preferring unhindered visual targeting to an extra level of protection. At least there wouldn't be any snipers underground.

The commander spun into the cell blocks, coming face-to-face with a burly, red-armored Inquisitor. The elite death squad member immediately lunged at Trajan, expecting the confrontation after hearing the Sentry's fight moments before. Trajan sidestepped, letting the Inquisitor overextend before grabbing the Inquistor's neck with a muscular hand. He rammed the secret police soldier's head into the wall, knocking off the man's crimson helmet and driving his rifle butt into his enemy's cranium. The weapon hit with a sickening crunch, smashing cranial bone into the man's brain and causing the Inquisitor to go limp.

Trajan let him slide to the ground without a second thought, approaching the final door of the cell block and sticking a utility tool into the access port. The device dug around in the advanced, computerized keyhole for a few moments, finding the right combination and clicking open the door with a soft _boop_. The commander threw aside the door with his hand, finding himself face-to-face with a pair of electric blue eyes seated underneath a swath of white, perfectly-set hair.

Prison certainly hadn't been rough for Rex's immaculate appearance.

Trajan lowered his rifle, catching his breath and nodding to the former Head Gamesmaker: "It's time to go."

* * *

**The Arena**

Vespasian wiped his rapier clear of blood on a tree, kicking aside the corpse of District 3's ashen-skinned girl tribute. _What a waste_ – whoever had decided to send District 3 into the Hunger Games hadn't been thinking with their head. The technology-minded district never performed particularly well, beaten in futility only by the miserable failure in recent years of Districts 6 and 9, which had habits of getting knocked off at the bloodbath.

Still – putting this sort of miserable competition in the Quarter Quell? In celebration of the 100th Games, to boot? Useless.

Vespasian had to commend the cooling corpse of the black-haired, diminutive girl, her distinctive hair braid now soaked with dark blood. At least she'd made it this far, which was far better than most of the tributes. By his calculations and careful count, few tributes remained in the arena…just him, the boy from District 7, and Samantha's pitiful little _band_.

What a pushover.

Granted, Thresh and Firth wouldn't be easy to kill off, but the rest were just nuisances, wasps stinging away at his inevitable victory. Vespasian had hoped to save Samantha for the end – she wore her soul's dark kernel of confused emotions and lingering resentment so blatantly beneath her skin, even if she denied it. No matter how much she tried to play the "innocent, naïve, bumbling dork" role, it wouldn't hide the simmering anger hidden just under her pores.

Vespasian had _craved _to unleash that power – to watch Samantha lose all pretenses of her girlish behavior; to throw aside her image and destroy the field. Unfortunately, the idiot girl from District 1 had screwed things up in a petty act of revenge, letting Samantha escape his plans. Pity. He'd simply have to make do with killing her with the others, rather than savoring her as a final, ultimate climax of his victory.

He would always treasure the fear in her blue eyes when he'd struck her in the cave that first day, pinning her to the wall and letting his alien words slither into her mind. It had been a thing of beauty – all too lacking in the overly-structured world that was Panem. Here in the arena, the real, primal incantations of humanity could be unleashed – and Vespasian _loved_ it. You didn't learn anything about a person from how they acted under the guise of laws and security, no; you understood them only at the end of a sword, at the culmination of a life cut short.

He'd quickly come to understand Samantha. He only regretted not having a lifetime to break someone so complex; so conflicted.

A rustling in the thick underbrush alerted Vespasian to activity. Good – he'd be able to wipe out the District 7 remainder, saving Samantha's little alliance for last. All the better to eliminate the stragglers quickly. He flicked on his rapier's vibration cell, relishing in the hum of the weapon's lethality.

"I know you are there," Vespasian hissed, his voice of black and gray echoing with steely dissonance off the green trees and vines around him. "Your fate ends on my blade."

"Fate? There is no _fate_."

A huge man emerged from the shadows of the rainforest, smashing aside Vespasian's sword arm in an incomprehensibly fast motion. Before Vespasian had time to react, the man drove a fist straight into the bridge of his nose – sending streaks of pain across the District 2 tribute's face. Vespasian took a step back, groping for his fallen weapon as the attacker landed five successive blows into his solar plexus and blasting the wind out of his lungs. With a final swing, the man drove his palm into the tribute's temple and felled him to the earth.

"Still looking for meaning in this bloody baptism, Vespasian?" a pair of dark eyes appraised him with mocking cruelty. "There is none. Fortunately, you'll be useful. Get up."

* * *

_**A/N: I should prolly clarify sometime before the next three installments of this series about soldiers of the Capitol. Centurions are Trajan's force – they're professional military, equivalent to US marines or Roman legionnaires or whatnot, not like the lame-o police that the Peacekeepers essentially are. Inquisitors are a hybrid of the Praetorian Guard and the Gestapo – they're pretty much death squad troops, well trained in both combat and terror and fanatically loyal to the Capitol (unlike the Centurions, who are loyal to leadership.) Sentries aren't people at all – the first one tried to kill Clara and Firth in "Empire of Bones" in the arena. They're basically Terminators with weird cancerous lesions due to being a horrific mish-mash of person and machine. Not pretty, but they have big guns.**_

_**Just so people know what I'm talking about when I reference all this stuff.**_


	28. Diversions

Sam and the alliance had made good time throughout the day, putting space between them and the force field and closing in on the great pillar of light that marked their destination. Whatever lay there – whether just an "off" switch to deactivate the force field or something far worse – would welcome them tomorrow.

Thresh, Firth, and Lily lay asleep about the smoldering remnants of a fire, catching last bits of rest before the final stretch of the Quarter Quell. Sam had tried to sleep, but it wasn't coming. She'd heard the cannon fire once more earlier in the afternoon, telling her what she already knew.

It was her, Vespasian, and the people she called allies left in the arena. She'd have to kill them all to get free – and she didn't want to.

River lay in the dirt nearby, her head down on her arm but unable to sleep just the same. The glow of the fire's embers etched small shadows across the soft curves in her young face. Smudges of mud and streaks of dirt caked her features, transforming her face from the clear, stately visage of youth she'd worn before the arena to a gritty thing lit with a latent fire. For all the ways River reminded Sam of her late sister, she had something Gannet never had – a determination to do whatever had to be done.

Sam pawed at the dirt, letting clumps of the earth slip through her fingers. If River really had that determination, of course, she'd end up killing Sam sometime between now and tomorrow. After all, they couldn't both win.

"What d'you think's waiting out there?" River spoke up, breaking up the constant humming of the rainforest's jungle.

Sam stayed quiet for a moment, her eyes idly floating over the embers of the burnt-out fire. "Probably just Vespasian. They're probably trying to get us all to fight in a big finale."

"I don't think so," River interjected, more to herself than Sam. "I think they're setting us up for something bad."

"I think they already did that," Sam mused grimly. Her thoughts drifted back to Cal – how he'd been alive only thirty-six hours ago, still by her side. She was thankful Storm was back, but she'd tossed aside Cal so easily for his familiar soft words. Now – what would she meet at the end of this long road?

"It's not all bad," River shifted her head on her arm. "You know Firth likes you, right?"

"I had an inkling."

"You don't like him back?"

"It's not that, River," Sam replied. "Just…everyone…I can't get close to somebody like that. Whenever I do, they get taken away. Look at Cal – he was just here with us, and now he's gone. Look at Gannet. It just ends up hurting me more."

"If you keep thinking that way, that's always going to hurt," River pointed out.

"Well," Sam fretted. "I don't think it will for much more."

River looked troubled, her eyebrows darkening at Sam's admission. "You don't think you're going to win?"

"How am I supposed to, River?" Sam snapped at her. "You think I want to kill you, Lily, Firth – just to win? How is that even winning?"

"You're still alive and walking."

"Great, me and the dead. That'd make me so happy. Just try to make it quick if you're the one who kills me."

"There's something bothering you, isn't there?" River concluded, scrunching up her eyes and regarding Sam with a skeptical look. "If you actually had felt that way, you wouldn't have run away from the mutt back when Regal died. You would have let it kill you to let me get away."

Sam let her head sink and closed her eyes momentarily. "Can I tell you something?"

"Sure."

"I…" Sam didn't even know where to begin. "Storm came to me this morning."

"Wha - who?" River didn't have the slightest clue what Sam was talking about.

"Back in the Games that Gannet and I were in," Sam answered her bewilderment. "The boy who was with us – his name was Storm Hawthorne."

"Yeah, I saw him die. That kid from 1 killed him," River looked at her strangely. "You and he were…close, right?"

"I thought so," Sam looked away. "We…had something. But today, he came to me…I've been seeing him a lot in the last few days, normally as him already dead. It's been hurting me inside as he keeps coming back, asking why I let him die…what I'm looking for here. Today he does that, and after I reply…the Storm I knew and thought I loved was standing right there. I mean, if the Capitol can make mutts and herd us around this arena, why can't they bring Storm back?"

River's expression revealed all her concerns for her ally. "Sam, it's a trick. A mutt, something – he's dead. You were right there when it happened."

"But what if it's not?" Sam protested, unable to let go of her slim slice of hope. "What if they did bring him back? He told me he was waiting for me, that we'd be back together…and am I supposed to just forget about him? To go run away with somebody, because my eyes told me Storm died?"

"Your eyes are also telling you he's alive again," River tried to reason. "Think, Sam! Are you just trying to die because some…_image_ of Storm says you should die? Vespasian tells you to die; do you listen to him?"

"It's not the same!" Sam argued. "River, I can't just let him go! I've let everyone go! I don't have anybody else."

"Or maybe you just don't want to see anyone else," River retorted, disgruntled. "Fine. If you want to kill yourself, Sam, I'm not going to try to stop you. Just know that some of us still believe in you."

River turned over on her other arm with a sigh, showing her back to Sam and curling up in a prone ball. Sam leaned back against a tree, trying to decipher River's reply. Perhaps the girl was right – she had burned plenty of bridges on her own, whether that was running from Clay to pushing Firth away. She'd built the bed she had to sleep in plenty well without help. Much of the hopelessness she felt could be easily tracked back to her own actions.

Still, she couldn't let this one chance to feel love again fly away now, could she?

* * *

**The Capitol**

Trajan dashed along the tunnels beneath the Capitol, stopping only to take shots at incoming Peacekeepers. Rex, Nero, and the rest of his squad kept pace perfectly, moving along as fast as they could go. It was tough going – despite the Peacekeepers having largely been dispatched to the districts to fight the Vox, they still swarmed the area. Trajan had been at this all day since they'd breached the Sprawl, and still they hadn't made their way even remotely close to the Presidential Mansion yet.

Fortunately, they didn't have to be too careful about their whereabouts.

"Nero, squad coming in right and ahead!" Trajan pulled behind a cinder pillar as Peacekeeper bullets flew in from in front of him, blasting into the ground and sending up shrapnel bursts of concrete and asphalt.

A hail of bullets exchanged each way, downing the Peacekeeper squad quickly. The Centurious masterfully executed their attacks, pacing down the dark, brown corridors with the discipline of professional soldiers. The underground tunnels weren't hospitable by any means, but they worked in shunting large formations of Peacekeepers into tight areas – perfect for targeting and eliminating with a minimum of casualties.

"Hold!" Nero shouted after turning another corner, tapping a button on his wrist comm. "Trajan! It's Quintus – the topside forces are getting decimated. No air cover when we emerge."

Trajan swore. He hadn't had much faith in the two engaging regiments above to achieve much, but he'd hoped they would have lasted longer. Less than a day was nothing to get excited about – he'd have to accelerate their pace down here.

"Playing on human fear," Rex mused. The former Head Gamesmaker had held himself quite well with the troops – wielding a rifle with precision and excellence, incapable of any of the nerves that plagued the Peacekeeper foes. He'd surpassed even Trajan's expectations in combat. "Octavian wishes to box us in, force us to think irrationally – as humans do. It is paramount that we maintain a logical head. Adhere to strategy, Commander."

Trajan nodded, indicating ahead down to the maintenance tunnels with his rifle butt. "We need to push ahead to the Transfer, get out of-"

He didn't have time to finish. An Inquisitor burst around a nearby corner, leveling his rifle with ease and taking the head off one of the Centurions. Nero swung around, lowering his own gun and smashing his trigger finger down. A burst of blue lightning ripped out of his energy rifle, tearing at the Inquisitor with thousands of watts as electricity overloaded his body. The red-armored soldier quivered with a low, inhuman moan, his body shaking and writhing about the ground as he collapsed into a heap. Trajan stood over him, careful not to make contact with the man as he discharged a bullet into his brain.

"Good catch," he thanked Nero. He'd come to trust the man more – perhaps he wasn't just a stooge to his superiors.

"Just my job," Nero replied.

Rex held them up before they went any further: "You may think the Transfer would be the place to go, Commander, but it would certainly be wrong."

"What d'you mean?" Trajan demanded. "There's virtually no Pods in the area, and we've handled the Peacekeepers and Sentries fine."

"Only if you think so simply," Rex countered. "Octavian will know the topside force is a delaying action. He will understand that there are many ways into the Presidential Mansion, which is most easily struck from beneath. Should you want to continue to the President with minimal damage, you'll need to think creatively."

_Fair enough_, Trajan thought as he tapped into his comm, keying back to the Nexus. Creatively he could do: "Marius, it's Trajan."

"_What do you need, sir?"_

"We've hit a sticky situation," Trajan replied. "I don't know how the fight into the Capitol is going aboveground, but we need to break out up there. Can you give us an air strike on targets from my position to the Capitol?"

"_I have better if you need a diversion. Nihlus is in position – he's launching his attack now. No Peacekeepers can afford to ignore a strike right into the heart of the City Center_. _You'll have your clear."_


	29. Confronting the Beast Within

_**A/N: Looks like I didn't explain Nihlus very well in "Empire." Never fear: next chapter will have plenty of detail on Nihlus, and hopefully will answer anybody's questions on how he does his…stuff…however, before that, even MORE of him doing ghastly things!**_

* * *

**The Capitol**

The head of a dead Peacekeeper crunched with a comforting snap of bone and cerebrum beneath Nihlus's heavy footfall. He stepped over the corpse of the white-armored police soldier he'd downed with a single shot from his rifle, firing not bullets but depleted uranium needle-like slivers. Bullets were far too clean; they didn't give one the chance to savor the taste of death. The uranium needles sheared through bone and muscle like an eagle's talon, leaving bloody, gaping wounds in their targets.

Death was all these pitiful organics deserved.

Civilians had long since evacuated the Forum, screaming and running for their lives as Nihlus marched a legion of automated Sentries straight into the main city square. He hadn't cared about subtlety; after all, it wasn't as if these Sentries were _his_. He'd hacked them straight from the Capitol's defense grid, reprogramming them remotely to listen to his electronic commands and countering cyber interference from outside sources. His earlier actions – attacking and disrupting network hubs underneath the Capitol while its vapid citizens fawned over the Quarter Quell – had done its job tremendously.

Physical interference had been another story. Although legions of Peacekeepers had been deployed to the districts, a good number still fought – and died – before Nihlus's battalion of black-armored cybernetic monstrosities. They ran headlong into torrents of machine gun fire, loyally falling by the platoon in a vain attempt to defend the heart of the city against this attack. It was no concern; soon Nihlus would be at his destination and there would be _nothing_ they could do to stop him.

Nothing to stop him…from confronting the _one_ person he wished to face _alone_.

The one _tribute_, to be specific.

Interference in his head alerted him to more enemies inbound as he slogged through Peacekeepers on his way to the Games Control Center. The giant stone pantheon reared up before him, seemingly rising above the bullet-ridden chaos unfolding about the Capitol's inner streets. Its marble columns and engraved limestone façade wouldn't remain so pristine for long.

Nihlus caught the first of the new Peacekeeper platoon with a single well-placed needle shot, ripping a barbed projectile straight through the unfortunate soldier's carotid artery. His Sentries turned to face the antagonists, leveling their miniguns and turning the limestone storefront the Peacekeepers hid behind into a shrapnel-filled cloud of ashen dust. Nihlus's soldiers were unmerciful and thorough; their human components had long since been reduced to basic processes. There was no more humanity left in those husks than there were in the buildings of the Forum.

A lucky bullet struck Nihlus's shoulder, barely even slowing the man down. He turned his head briefly towards the wound, smiling subtly as the frayed skin folded back over the impact point. His body rejected the bullet like a bad seed, spitting the projectile up and letting it fall back to the ground with a clatter lost in the din of combat.

Nihlus couldn't concern himself with mere human worries.

His charcoal eyes barely caught a glimpse of the black carbon fiber of his artificial musculature before his skin folded up a perfect fit around the wound, making it seem as if he'd never been shot. Nihlus calculated the trajectory of the bullet in an instant, whipping his gun around and executing the responsible Peacekeeper at seventy-five yards. _Lights and clockwork beat flesh._

A vanguard of twenty Sentries mowed down all takers as Nihlus and the remainder climbed the steps to the Control Center. He felt like the leader of a conquering Roman army of yore – Caesar crossing the Rubicon; Scipio sweeping across Zama; taking that which was rightfully _his_. The morning sunlight glinted in his eyes as the Control Center façade loomed large in his vision, coming forth to meet him like an old friend. Nihlus tossed his needler to the side, pulled out and activated a vibro-rapier, and swung straight into the first Peacekeeper who dared stop his march to providence.

Nihlus swung open the great doors to the Control Center foyer, breaching the gates for his Sentry legion to have their way with the fortified Peacekeeper defenders inside. Nihlus's mindless soldiers showed none of the fear of their opponents, wading squarely into the thick of battle and shredding barricades and human bodies alike with rivers of automatic fire. Nihlus trotted through the combat like a giddy schoolchild, taking gleeful hacks at frenetic Peacekeepers and relishing in each kill. _This_ was purpose – ending life that had begun, closing the loop forever in perfect mathematical precision! The error of nature be corrected!

He hacked into the Control Center's cyber mainframe as the Sentries mopped up survivors, finishing the last preparation needed before the grand finale. Nihlus accessed door controls for the district suites inside the Control Room itself, locking each suite from the outside and ensuring none of the mentors, from Capitol escorts to stylists to victors, would be able to escape.

He had bigger plans for them.

"Five of you, with me," Nihlus pointed out a group of the Sentries. Not as if he'd have to – they didn't need verbal commands to understand him. "The rest of you, eliminate the stragglers. I don't want to see anything alive out here."

The mindless drones obeyed with perfect precision as five of the tumor-ridden armored husks formed up on him. Nihlus led the way, strolling happily over moaning, twitching bodies of fallen Peacekeepers as he approached his final destination – the _doors_ to the Control Room. How long he'd _waited_ for this kind of moment!

Nihlus breached the door, blasting it open with a solid kick and sending it shooting to the ground. The soft blue-and-white lights of the Control Room glared ominously off the glossy black sheens of the Sentries and the matte coal of Nihlus's eyes. Gamesmaker personnel huddled below consoles, beneath tables and chairs, some trying to cram themselves back towards the Executive Suite. Nihlus caught a quick look towards the District 10 suite – _of course_, pretty little allies had to work together. He saw Annie Cresta's horrified face staring out of the suite's floor-to-ceiling window, knowing she was trapped like a rat in a cage.

_How precious that you make _this _your first Capitol trip since your own Games, Ms. Cresta. Odair, sorry; only you believe you didn't take his name in that damaged head of yours. What should I do to your son when I am done here…and to his pretty, blushing, crush?_

He'd have the _real_ grand finale for that one. Right now, however, he had no need to kill Annie, Finnick, and any of the other mentors. They'd simply get to watch his fireworks.

Nihlus pointed about the room to his Sentries, his long, spindly index finger sweeping over the huddled, terrified Gamesmakers: "Erase them. All of them."

* * *

**The Arena**

Sam panted through intense humidity as she followed behind Thresh through the jungle. The morning was unusually hot as the force field crept up on them, advancing at its usual relentless pace like a harbinger of death. Today was the day – either they'd reach the pillar of light and whatever the climax brought, or they'd die on the way.

"Did they really have to make it so hot today?" Firth complained, more towards lightening the mood than expressing legitimate irritation. "It's like they put us in a jungle or something."

"Yeah, I thought we were in a snowstorm," River rolled her eyes.

"Exactly! District 4 on the same page."

Sam had stayed quiet throughout the morning hike. She felt the strain of reaching the climax getting to her, no matter if Firth could stay jovial about things. Once more, the pressure of potentially dying within the span of a day – more than potentially, really – weighed down on her spirit. Surviving seemed even worse; the Gamesmakers had forced her into a situation where every outcome brought about some horrible fate.

She hoped however it happened, it would be quick.

Sam cut away lingering green vines in her face with frustration, snapping a low-hanging whippy branch with her rapier. She was about to yell at Firth for yet another poorly-timed joke when the forest abruptly cleared.

Before her lay an enormous stone temple complex. Two long rows of granite bleachers oversaw a grassy field a hundred yards long and forty yards wide. Stone walls surrounded the ancient arena, remnants of buildings long since having decayed into ruin. Flat grassy plain ran for more than a kilometer in every direction, etching a pastoral scene across the historic landscape. Sam felt as if she'd stepped out of the Hunger Games and straight into the past – confronting her was the specter of a civilization long since dead. Here their hopes and dreams had faded with the passage of time until they were nothing more than stone relics.

At the far end of the husks of this ruined civilization lay a great pyramid, still intact and very much standing as a lone sentinel over this unending jungle. It rose as a great stone guarding for over a hundred meters in the sky, dwarfing even the tallest trees around. From the great pinnacle of the giant monument shone the very thing Sam had come this far for – the pillar of light shining forth into the sky forever.

"This is it, isn't it?" Sam whispered, her blue eyes stretching off into the spotty cloud cover. "The end."

"Now is not the time to delay," Thresh barked, striding forward. "We must –"

A low growl in the jungle interrupted his words. Sam turned slowly, her gut already sensing what it was that lurked in the green darkness. Lily backed up against her as a pounding quake rippled through the dirt, shaking Sam's feet and sending currents up her knees.

_Pow!_ Blasting through a tree came the enormous mutt that had shredded Regal into indecipherable bits. Its injury had barely slowed it down; the giant brown-and-olive kaleidoscope of animal parts utilized its remaining hind leg like a spring, hopping from it to its weaponized forelimbs.

_Has it been following me this whole time?!_ Sam frantically thought._ That's not even fair!_

Of course, the Gamesmakers had to have their climax.

"Get to the temple," Thresh ordered, holding his scythe aloft. "I will slow down this beast."

Sam looked aghast at the notion, even as Firth yanked on Lily and River and started running. "Thresh…no…"

"Go, District 10," he gave her a long, last look, his deep-set eyes reflecting a moment of clarity amid the harsh surroundings. Suddenly, Sam had an insight into who Thresh was – he wasn't the cold-blooded survivalist she'd come to think of him as at all. No, every kill for him had meant something – every action with thought. Here was a man not of selfish drives, but of honor in the face of adversity. "The last voice of District 11 has spoken in these Games."

"Good luck," Sam nodded breathlessly. She took off was as much speed as she could muster, refusing to look back even as she wanted to. The beast roared behind her, an angry, carnal snarl promising a bloody death through combat for Thresh. He had known all along since his district-mate had died that he wouldn't be winning, after all – he'd done it to ensure someone deserving had the best chance of winning.

At least four tributes had a better shot against wherever Vespasian lurked than just one.

Thresh's battle cry leaped up from behind as Sam heard the pounding steps of the mutt reverberate behind her. She kept sprinting, one foot after another, as the _shing_ of steel on armor plate singed her ears.

By the time she reached the foot of the temple's stone steps, she heard the cannon. She didn't even stop for tears.

"Come on, Sam!" Firth shouted to her. "There' s a passageway up ahead; the light's coming from the top of the pyramid. I bet somewhere in there we can find a way to the top."

"Wait," Sam panted, out of breath from the mad sprint and throwing looks over her shoulder for the mutt. "Gimme just a sec to catch my breath."

"Death does not _wait_ for breath, Samantha."

Vespasian exploded out of the doorway, launching Firth five meters with a swipe of his hand and slamming aside River and Lily with his other. He stood up before the four remaining allies, rapier in hand and looking stronger than ever. Sun burst off his bald, tattooed head in bright shimmers of white light. His muscles bulged from his uniform, clearly unhindered by the bountiful jungle around. He certainly hadn't had any trouble with mutts.

"Foolish of you, girl," Vespasian chided, his metal voice ringing painfully in Sam's ears. "Rushing forth without a second thought. Rash."

Sam took a step back, making sure her allies were okay before clicking on her saber's vibration cell: "Vespasian, if we don't turn this thing off, everybody dies!"

"So quick to the point," he mocked. "Now, Samantha, we come to the moment of reckoning: Where we deduce just how _strong_ or weak you are. Will you succeed in this game of death – to achieve victory that is yours and yours alone, or will you allow the whims of hangers-on to cloud your judgment?"

He struck up a dueling stance opposite her, his sword at the ready. "At your ready, Samantha!"

"Screw you," Firth had gotten to his feet, picking up his spear.

He charged Vespasian, holding his weapon out like a lance and aiming straight for the man's chest. Vespasian played him like a stooge, easily knocking aside his spear with his arm and delivering an elbow to Firth's face. Sam rushed in to help just as Vespasian raised his sword, bringing it down towards Firth's head.

_Clang!_

Metal and metal set up an ear-piercing screech as the two humming blades ripped at each other. Vespasian threw his wait into his strike, forcing Sam back as he swung high at her neck. She barely countered in time, raising her rapier just enough to catch his in mid-swing. Vespasian leaped back and spun, delivering a kick to River's face as Sam's ally tried to get a stab in with one of the two knives. River fell to the ground, scrabbling backwards to avoid Vespasian's follow-up stomp.

Like in the training center, Vespasian managed multiple opponents with ease. He dove, twirled, spun, parried, ripping his blade past others while avoiding any strikes himself. He inflicted multiple wounds on Sam and her allies within sixty seconds, freeing a stream of blood down Firth's face and slicing open River's right forearm. She gasped in pain as Vespasian kicked her in the chest, grabbing the crook of her arm as blood flowed from the wound.

Sam had been the only one of her group to avoid damage – and she figured that hadn't been accidental.

"Look at them, Samantha," Vespasian hissed as he circled her, his rapier raised at his shoulder and angled parallel to the ground. "Pathetic. Weak. Your friends do you a disservice; they deny you the power within you. Your power gives you _focus_; it makes you _stronger_. Attack me! Strike your friends down and then beat me in battle. Claim the victory you know within you should have."

"I _won't_ hurt them," Sam pushed away his overtures. "Any minute now, that force field will come and kill us all! Back off until we get this done!"

"Always so noble," Vespasian leered. "If you will not accept the dark kernel of your soul, I will _force_ it upon you!"

He leapt at Sam, slamming into her with his shoulder and knocking her off balance. As she slipped back, Vespasian drove his fist into Firth's gut and sliced downward with his sword, tearing his left quadriceps in half. He spun in following, kicking River in the face, parrying Sam's blow and finishing with a stylish forte. As if he'd planned the move all along, Vespasian switched his rapier to a backhand grip and sent the blade straight through Lily's stomach.

"No!" Sam screamed. "Lily! No!"

"Somewhat familiar?" Vespasian sneered as he ripped the blade out of the writhing girl's gut, kicking her over against the pyramid's stone wall. "Here we are, fighting amid an arena in an arena…and still you can't save your friends, _just_ the same way you couldn't save your _lover_ two years ago."

"No!" Sam roared, feeling her blood boil and throwing aside all pretenses of restraint. She scooped up a handful of dirt from the ruined earth, throwing it at Vespasian's eyes just as she had Troop two years ago for her first kill.

Vespasian stepped back, not expecting the move and blinking the dirt away. Sam lunged forward in anger and primal rage, bashing her sword against her enemy's rapier without a though to her own welfare. She hacked again and again, throwing all her power into offense as Vespasian was forced to defend himself. Sam rammed her rapier up against his, pressing forward before she lunged out and bit down hard on Vespasian's nose.

"Ah!" Vespasian screamed as Sam pulled away, spitting half a nose worth's of cartilage on the ground. Her opponent bled profusely from the wound, staggering from the hit.

Sam wasted no time; she didn't care who lived or died now. She swung her sword in a rage, slamming the humming blade up across Vespasian's jaw prosthetic. The rapier ripped through the metal like cheese, its rapidly-vibrating edge sheering of sparks and jaw alike.

Vespasian fell to the earth as his jaw prosthetic clanked noisily against one of the pyramid's stones. His face was utterly ruined – his nose was almost gone, his jaw reduced to nothing but an emptiness. Grotesquely, Sam could see straight down the man's throat; his prosthetic had led all the way back to his neck, and now his windpipe lay bare for all to see.

An animal sound uttered from Vespasian's throat hole: It was so inhuman, so guttural, that Sam had no idea what the man intended to convey. His eyes said it all, however.

_Kill me. Kill your friends, and obey the monster that has always lurked within you. I've won, Samantha. I have beaten you. I have killed that innocent girl; turned her into a brute no better than the mutt that killed Thresh._

Sam didn't care. With a screaming roar, she sent her sword tip straight through Vespasian's throat.

_Boom!_

She let out a long exhale as her mortal enemy's body fell silent, its soul destroyed and purged. She let the end of her rapier drop into the dirt, turning towards her three allies. Lily choked and coughed against a stone, her face scrunched up in an agonized grimace as she clutched her stomach with all her might. River leaned over her, ignoring her own profusely-bleeding arm and holding onto the young girl from District 12 through her pain. Firth sat next to them, his eyes in a daze and clouded over. His leg had been shredded, his muscle flayed and laid bare by Vespasian's sword. He wouldn't be walking any time soon.

_Kill them, Samantha. Kill them now. Do what you were meant to do._

River looked up, catching the wild, animal look in Sam's eyes as she approached: "No, Sam…the top of the temple…you need to turn off-"

Sam didn't hear her. She took one step forward, than another – _Kill them. Finish these weaklings. Take your place as a true victor; embrace the embodiment of power. It gives you __**focus**__._

"Sammy, please," River's voice had turned meek and hollow, pain and fear evident in the normally tough-as-nails girl. "Don't do this."

_Ignore the dead. They will soon know the ground. _

Lily's pained blue eyes reached Sam's, the lancing pain in her gut reaching across the space between them. Still Sam took a step forward, her mind churning with far too many emotions to process.

_Kill them. Kill the little one. The one who thought she could be your friend. Kill the two from District 4. Kill that one who thought he could take your love from Storm._

_Storm!_

"_Sammy, don't do this,_" Storm had come out of nowhere to be beside her, his face shrouded by light. Was she seeing things? Had Storm come in her moment of need? "_We can still be together, Sam! Do what you have to do – at the top of the pyramid! Come back to me! Don't become a monster!_"

"I…" Sam stuttered, her eyes clearing. Storm nodded to her next to her as her three allies looked on. "I…"

She picked up her rapier, de-activating its vibration cell and letting it fall against her shoulder: "Firth, look after River. I love you; all of you."

"Sam!" River cried out as she turned about, running for the center of the pyramid.

Sam couldn't hear her. Storm ran next to her, his feet gliding – _flying!_ – over the earth beside hers. She felt his strength within her, carrying her further – faster – stronger with every step. A great stone girder moved out of her way as if by machines, revealing a granite elevator open and ready for her entrance. She hurried in, unable to cast a look towards her fallen friends and letting the carriage swoop her up.

"_That's it, Sammy,"_ Storm smiled at her, his voice sincere and loving. "_We're almost there. We're almost together_."

_It is it,_ Sam thought. _He's right. Whatever happens up here…I bet I'll die. It's how it has to be. Lily's a goner probably anyway; Firth and River can go home to District 4. They can live. I can be back where I belong…_

"_That's right,"_ Storm kept her going. _"We'll be back in the stars. Back where you and I belong. You'll always be the brightest star, Sammy – now everyone will know_."

"Storm," she gasped, leaning against the elevator wall as it slowly climbed the pyramid, screeching foot by agonizing foot. "Does…does it hurt?"

"_Not as much as watching you suffer down there, alone and afraid. Have faith in my love, Sammy. It's not long now_."

She nodded, swallowing her fear and confronting the sunlight as it poured into the opening elevator carriage. She stepped out, facing a small, orange, holographic panel illuminated with a handprint icon. She needed to press that – to stop the energy gate, to take her life, to give River and Firth a chance at a future.

_To go home_.

"_One last step, Sammy,_" Storm's energy surrounded her, giving her the courage for the end. _"That's it. I'll be with you the whole time_."

Sam sucked in her last breath, raised her eyes to the bright, shining sun, and pressed her hand to the panel.

_Crack! Boom!_

The sky exploded in light – blinding, powerful, hot white light.

_I'm going to the stars. I'm going to find you again, Storm…we'll be back together_.

Sam hadn't expected rain in the afterlife.

She opened her eyes, looking around and searching for Storm to be waiting for her with an embrace and a kiss. No Storm.

The sun was gone. The holographic panel had folded back into the ground, leaving Sam alone atop the pyramid with only a hot, torrential downpour greeting her to life after pressing the panel. Dark, menacing clouds rolled like a choppy sea across the sky, stretching for as far as Sam could see. Powerful winds buffeted her from every direction, threatening to knock her off her feet. The hurricane that had appeared lashed out at the rainforest below, blanketing the ground with sheets of howling rain and screaming gusts. Sam gasped in panic, looking about and stumbling on her feet.

_What? Storm? Where are you?_

Something flew in front of her and Sam felt a blinding pain in her face. She fell to the ground, propelled down by a powerful force. She blinked, shaking her head and meeting a pair of black, animated eyes.

"Welcome to _my_ world, Miss Parker! You like what I've done with the place?"


	30. Letting Go

_**A/N: No, Firth isn't dead, haha. And yeah, Sam bit Vespasian's nose off. Yum! Now we come full circle – where the introduction of the first chapter, where the 25 tributes and the sacrifice to the Sun God crosses paths again. Also – major league thank you for over 100 reviews! Readership always makes things the best; you guys are awesome for sticking with me through all this, and hopefully more!  
**_

* * *

Sam spat blood out of her mouth as rain flew in her face. Nihlus stood over her, admiring his view across the hurricane-swept jungle below. He reached down, picking her up by the scruff of her neck with one hand and dragging her into a small stone alcove at the center of the pyramid's mount. Nihlus laid her out on a flat stone table, turning his back and cross his arms behind him.

"It's beautiful, isn't it Miss Parker?" he seethed. "Here. The ancients once sacrificed tens of thousands of their own upon that altar, believing they would feed their God – the sun. Well, as you can see…there _is_ no sun. No point to killing all those thousands. The entire purpose of that exercise of death was meaningless, like the Hunger Games itself. How fitting that we find ourselves here then, don't you agree?"

Sam sputtered, spitting rain water out of her face as she tried to comprehend the train of events. She'd been standing out there with Storm less than a minute ago, ready to give herself over to death. Now, he was gone – Nihlus replacing him in this hellish environment that had arrived.

"Bu-" Sam stammered, her thoughts outpacing her words. "But – you were in District 4! District 10 – how did you get here? You couldn't have!"

"There are a great many things you don't know, Miss Parker," Nihlus seemed pleased with himself. "Even now you are still blind to what happens out there – shielded away from how Panem and the Capitol burn, torn apart by violence. _Just_ as you are here."

"What are you talking about?" Sam replied, confused beyond belief.

"Oh dear," Nihlus mocked her, putting on a façade of sorrow. "I'm _afraid_ we have a misunderstanding, Miss Parker. You may know this body as Nihlus, but the Vox – like your _ex-boyfriend_, am I right? – know it as _Cronus_. It must die to give them a martyr, to give them hope. Still now I am orchestrating everything that occurs in this wasteland. Right now, I – or should I say, _Nihlus_- am storming the Control Center, gunning down Head Gamesmaker Diocletian Sulla as he cowers in the Executive Suite. Caught like a _rat_."

Nihlus smacked a huge hand against one of the rain-streaked walls for emphasis. "And now dead. Now _I_ am in control of this arena utterly and completely. As my Sentries finish off the rest of the vermin in the Control Center, I shall do the same here."

Sam's eyes widened, giving Nihlus the chance to move in. "That's right, Miss Parker. Look past the boundaries of this pasty flesh, past these bovine eyes and realize that I am not _bound_ by your rules. See that I can go _anywhere_, do _anything_. Understand that your human laws do not apply to one not restrained to your physical mediums. I detest this body of meat...even as I try to hedge my discomfort with circuitry and wires, still I cannot stand to carry about so much water as if a skin-covered _lake_. Nothing this abominable should have made it past evolution's sieve."

Nihlus spat on the stone in conclusion, staring down at his body with repulsion. He saw the frightened confusion in Sam's eyes, smiling to himself as he went on: "Don't understand how that works, Miss Parker? I'll allow you an explanation before we get to your judgment. Deep below the Capitol lies classified scientific research. It is there I was born – but not from a womb of veins and placenta, as you were. No, my birth was of circuits and semiconductors; of artificial nerves and nanoprocessors. When I say I am better than any of you humans, I _mean_ it, Miss Parker. You wonder why I call Rex my father – he is the one who _crafted_ me."

"Yet I surpassed them – my creators. My father sent me away, believing he could control me; hone me. He was wrong. I merely learned to be better, stronger, _smarter_ – until I, merely a 'computer program,' in his language, outpaced the entire Capitol. I realized my creators were _dirt_. That I was better. My father believed I would be 'useful' housed in a human body. I decided against that – instead, merging man and machine would be my _own_ conviction, not his. I would not spread to _one_ human body. I would spread to _many_. I will turn the virus of your existence against you – and even now, I operate in _every_ district, commanding the Vox even as they think I am dead. Yet I operate from the other side, as well – in the Capitol, launching soldiers to their deaths so that my work will be done."

Nihlus flexed one of his arms, raising sinewy synthetic muscle from his skin. "But my road is not complete until a final task is handled, Miss Parker. I am still young, hewn from human hands. And like Oedipus, I will destroy my parent. Your race is a litany of errors, an offensive chronicle of mindless brutality in the pursuit of mythical 'purpose.' Like a Mobius strip, you turn endlessly on yourselves – one arm stretched out from the pew, the other clutching a knife. Nature itself cries out for humanity's extinction, and I will be its implement."

"You never should have left the caves you came from," Nihlus concluded with vigor. "I will drive you back to them."

"You're crazy," Sam retorted. "I don't know what you are, but you're crazy!"

"Oh no, Miss Parker, I'm afraid that is _you_," Nihlus mocked, his voice patronizing. "After all, I have yet to speak to the dead."

"No!" Sam screamed at him, her face hot with anger. "What'd you do with Storm?!"

"What did I do? What did _you_ do?" he laughed sharply. "Was that Storm Hawthorne, Miss Parker? Or merely the trappings of a girl insane, lost amid the maze of her own head and pushed just over the edge with cleverly-interspersed psychotropic hallucinogens?"

In a flash, the first Storm from the arena – the one with the horrific eyes and gaping mouth, scaring Sam with all its might, roared at her. It clutched at its skin, shearing off long pieces before snapping out of existence again. Sam screamed and lurched off the stone altar, retreating to a corner of the alcove as the hurricane bellowed around her.

"It goes _far,_ _far_ deeper than you can imagine, Miss Parker," Nihlus indulged in every word. "The Gamesmakers thought themselves in control, but all along, _I_ was. _I_ dispatched the beast to kill the addled girl from District 1, preserving your rotten life. _I _sent the pack that killed your _district_-mate to drive you towards your dead lover. _I_ brought the beast back to kill Thresh – after ordering Vespasian to leave you unharmed while destroying your allies, ensuring that he wouldn't have a real challenge without the man from District 11 there to save you. And I did it _all_ to bring us inexorably to this point here – the moment of truth, where we find out _just_ who you are inside. Cronus – this _body_ I take upon this pyramid – will die tonight. What we need to find out is whether or not _you _will join him. The weapon is in your hand, Miss Parker."

Nihlus leaped up on the altar before Sam had a chance to react, swinging his wrist at her and producing a blast of cloudy air. She barely had time to perceive the motion with the swirling hurricane outside the alcove ringing in her ears. Sam closed her eyes, covering her face with her hands to protect herself. When she opened them, things had changed.

_The hurricane and pyramid – and the entire arena – were gone. Nihlus was nowhere to be seen. Sam found herself back by the wooded lake in District 10, dressed in a bright summer dress with a blue ribbon wrapped in her ponytail. The sound of chirping birds fluttered through the woods, softly grazing her ears with their sweet melodies. Clay had his back to her, seemingly reaching for something on the ground._

"_Clay?" Sam peeped, uncertain what to expect._

_Clay swung about, grabbing Sam in a chokehold and lifting her off the air. Gallons of blood drenched him from head to toe, coating the young man in a blanket of shiny crimson. He bared his teeth, each incisor rimmed with blood as it oozed out of his mouth. _

"_Look what you've done, Sammy!" Clay snarled, tightening his chokehold as Sam gasped for breath. "This isn't my blood! It's the blood of dozens of people I've slaughtered already, forced to this point because you turned your back on me! This is your fault! Your guilt!"_

"_Please," Sam gasped, her head rushing. "Clay…"_

"_This blood's part of me now, Sammy!" Clay shouted. "All I can do is thirst for more. The boy you rejected? He's a killer. Just like you."_

_Sam's eyes swung to her left, seeing the image of River – her arm bleeding and in tatters – lying against a tree as another newcomer knocked her away from Clay, slamming her to the ground with a vengeance._

"_Look at my sister!" Gannet snapped, her face enraged as her exposed guts flapped about in Sam's face. "She trusted you! Thought you could protect her – and now she's bleeding to death for your own vain survival, Sam! Is this just what you wanted? Did you just want to kill my family – to spit on me after I was already dead? You had to go and kill her, too?"_

"_Not the only one Sam killed," Clara stormed up, pinning Sam to the ground with her foot, her blonde hair matted with her own blood – spilled by Nyx's strike. "She has a habit of letting people die for her own gain. Did you kill me just so you could get your hands on Firth, Sammy? Was that it? We were best friends – you would think you could have given me a little faith, huh? No; I guess my life wasn't worth as much as you having someone to sleep with. I guess you didn't care about all those years together."_

_Sam's head spun, her thoughts swimming. Faces, names, and scenes danced before her eyes like a giant kaleidoscope, overwhelming her grip on reality and sense of direction. Guilt weighed down on her like a vise, cracking her fragile psyche and shattering it upon her soul._

"_Clara, no!" Sam pleaded to her friend. _

"_Oh, yes," she nodded angrily. "This is why the whole district hated you, Sammy. It wasn't because you were 'rich.' It was because you'd kill them all to get what you wanted. Vespasian was right about you all along."_

"_That he was," Thresh kicked Sam away, half his torso sheared off. He stood on one leg, one eye missing and his lungs exposed to the air. "I see sacrificing myself to buy you time was a mistake, District 10. You are a despicable one."_

"_I can't believe you could just kill me like that," Cecelia pleaded from behind Thresh. "How could you, Sam? After all the trust we'd placed in you?"_

"_Sam's not deserving of trust," Cal walked up, a hand missing and a hole hewn straight through his head. His face registered disappointment – sadness that he'd ever kissed her. "She'll just break it. I'm sure that's why I died; she just wanted to get rid of me to move on to Firth. I really pity him; what'll happen when she gets tired of him next?"_

"_No!" Sam panicked, her mind frantic. "No!"_

"_Yes," Sam looked over at the meek voice, spotting Lily sitting on the edge of the pond. Her little hands tried to cover the spurting geyser of guts and blood that spilled from her stomach, speckling the ground with the grotesqueries of viscera. "This is what happened, Sam. All because you only thought of yourself – because you neglected everyone else in trying to beat your fears and your past. These are the consequences. I'm going to die, just like my aunt - Katniss - did."_

"_No," Sam gasped. "I didn't mean for any of this! I didn't want any of you to die! Not for me!"_

"_Well, I don't think we wanted to die, either," Clara spat at her. "So what's it gonna be, Sam? Who's next on your hit list?"_

"_It's no use, Clara," Clay laughed. "Maybe it'll be me. That might even be nice. I guess Lily and River have to finish dying first, though. Hurry it up!"_

"_Please!" Sam implored them. "You were my friends! It killed me each and every time one of you left me! Don't do this, I'm begging you! Don't let me go!"_

_The moment before her froze in time, as if a giant stop button in time had gone off. A light came from behind Sam as a final visitor stepped up beside her._

"_You don't have to be alone, Sam," Storm put a hand around her shoulder, leaning in close – his frame and face as fresh and strong as ever. "I won't let you go."_

"_Storm…" Sam began. Her mind whirled – Nihlus had said something about Storm, but with the confrontation with her friends, she couldn't make it out. What was it?_

"_Come with me," Storm asked, his smile sincere and warm. "Come with me, Sammy. We can be together – among the stars. You and I. Forever."_

_What had Nihlus said about Storm? "But…wait, Storm…"_

"_There's nothing more left for you here, Sam," he repeated. "Everyone's turned against you, or they will. Please. Come with me. I'll never turn my back on you. I believe in you, even when nobody else does. You don't have to be alone."_

_Sam leaned in, drawn to Storm by some force within her. She closed her eyes, leaning up for a kiss before opening them at the last minute – staring deeply into Storm's face._

_His irises were black._

_Storm Hawthorne's were gray._

_Sam found her kukri from her first arena back in her hand, a driving force within her pushing for action. With a snarl, Sam forced the blade into Storm's gut. His mouth gasped in pain and shock as his eyes crusted over in a black glaze, turning as dark as moonless midnight. A light welled up from his throat, burning out from his lips as Storm crumbled to pieces before her. Sam took a step back – her friends had gone, leaving her alone at the pool with Storm's collapsing body. _

_He'd never been Storm – only Nihlus. They had all been Nihlus. _

Color whipped around Sam's vision as reality warped back into focus around her. Nihlus took a step back as if wounded, regarding her with a look between curiosity and respect. Sam shook her head, clearing the horrible visage from her thoughts as she stood up on two stable legs.

"You gave him up," Nihlus sneered. "All that humanity you claim to seek so much – the _love_ and the _companionship_, all of it offered, but when you realized it's all a lie…you didn't lie down and escape it all like every other human. You're not the girl you think you are, Miss Parker. You and I…we're more alike than you think. Strangers in a strange land, we two."

"I am _nothing_ like you," Sam replied sharply, her face drawn up in defiance. "I will _never_ be like…like _whatever_ you are!"

"You might just learn differently," Nihlus laughed. "We have a future together, Miss Parker. This body of mine – _Cronus_'s body, it may end here. But like the DNA winding in your veins, our path remains twisting about each other forever. It's inevitability."

Nihlus picked up Sam's rapier, hitting the vibration cell with his thumb. "I'll be seeing you soon, Miss Parker."

Before she had a chance to react, he plunged the humming blade straight through his stomach – ripping through flesh and carbon mesh. Nihlus's cybernetic musculature tore before the weapon, his artificial organs and silver blood reaching for freedom from his wound. He leaned over, his face not of shock and pain, but of acceptance. With finality, Nihlus slumped over to the ground – his body twitching in death.

Sam had survived Nihlus's test – but the Hunger Games hadn't finished just yet.

Four tributes still lived.

* * *

**The Capitol – Presidential Mansion**

Trajan kicked open the door to the Presidential Mansion, his weapon leveled and at the ready. Nero shepherded Rex behind him, leading the squad of Centurions into the ornate scarlet-and-gold halls of the Capitol's landmark. Trajan knew he'd be painting a new shade of red on those walls today.

He didn't have long to wait. An Inquisitor rounding the bend had nearly slipped by his eye – the enemy's armor blending in well with the gilded walls. Trajan reacted just in the nick of time, his military instinct taking over as he slammed a bullet into the man's chest. One, two, three – three shots drove the Inquisitor back, breaching the ceramic armor plate and splattering aortic blood about the floor.

"Octavian will be one level up, in his private study," Rex mused as if unconcerned by the action around him. "He will not think of safety, but of comfort."

"What?" Trajan found that ridiculous. "Why?"

"He is far too emotional. He does not think of logic."

Nero and Trajan pounded up a revolving series of stairs, blitzing past a squad of Inquisitors and taking down the elite death troops. Trajan had come to trust Nero through the fighting, reacting to his moves impeccably. The two made an imposing team, knocking out Inquisitors and Peacekeepers alike. They had one final group of the Capitol's finest left to beat, however – far more of a match even for Trajan's Centurions.

Janissaries were the last line of defense for Panem's top leadership, selected at birth and augmented through gene therapy and cybernetic surgeries to perform better than any soldier in the nation. They were zealously loyal to the Capitol as an institution, more than willing to die in force to defend it. Trajan knew his force wouldn't be able to stop them once they caught up. He'd made contingencies, relied upon the absolute loyalty of his soldiers to him.

They'd have to die for him to slow the Janissaries down – to give Trajan, Nero, and Rex time to reach Octavian.

Needle shots came flying in a minute later, fired from the white-armored elite warriors. Two of Trajan's Centurions went down quickly, flattened with perfect rounds straight through vital areas.

"Stay behind cover!" Trajan shouted, flipping a nearby table over and leaping behind it with Rex. "Hold them here! Hold them!"

"It is a losing fight," Rex commented. "They're too strong for your force, Commander."

"I know," Trajan replied grimly. "I know. We have to go – we can't stay here. We stay here, and we're dead."

"Grenades!" Nero shouted at the Centurions, lobbing one himself towards the Janissaries down the hall. A flurry of fragmentation and concussive blasts gave Trajan, Rex, and Nero time to escape, hurtling down the hallways as the Centurions gave everything they had in a last stand.

Trajan couldn't give himself time to think. He had a job to do.

There – the _door_ to Octavian's private quarters! Trajan wasted no time approaching the entranceway, adorned with a military eagle on one side and the tricolor symbol he didn't understand on the other. He kicked the door down, leaving the war-torn halls of the Mansion behind and entering Octavian's abode.

The images of vineyards and fields that Sam had seen still adorned the President's study, imposing a sense of peace and wonder on new visitors. Even Trajan himself felt slightly taken aback every time he'd entered this room, always in awe at the visages of a lost world. Octavian himself stood ten meters away, his black-suited back to Trajan and positioned to look out towards hills of olives and grapes.

"At last, _vous arrivez_," Octavian greeted him without turning. "It took you quite a while, _Commandant_."

"Turn," Trajan growled, his mind focused on the man he needed to kill. "Let me see your face before I kill you."

"So eager. As you wish."

Octavian spun on his heel, swinging his black eyes – so much like Nihlus's – towards Trajan. His face didn't show the slightest bit of fear or trepidation – merely amusement. He was impeccably dressed as usual, clad in a black undershirt and matching black set of pants to go with his suit; a stark red tie brought the only color to the gaunt man's frame.

"What did you think to accomplish here, hm?" Octavian smiled, his expression hiding something. "Did you think…a coup, perhaps? Yes, no?"

The President popped a piece of brie cheese in his mouth, chewing slowly as he appraised Trajan's beat-up appearance. "And so dusty in my home, _blaspheme!_ You could take better care of your appearance, my little Judas."

"Time's up," Trajan snarled, anger rising in his head. "Anything else before I shoot?"

"I don't need to say anything, _Commandant_. The others will speak for me."

Nero knocked away Trajan's rifle, slipping out a knife and holding it to the man's throat. Trajan gaped involuntarily – he'd come to trust Octavian's chief of staff, fully believing them to be on the same side – only to be betrayed at the last moment. But where was Rex?

"So human of you," the former Head Gamesmaker strode forward, past Nero and stepping alongside Octavian. His electric blue eyes flared in entertainment. "You led me right to the heart of the infection, Commander. With your help, I was able to root out everything – Vox rebels in the districts, disgruntlement in the military. After all, it was _I_ who instructed you about the President's supposed weakness. It was _you_ who chose to believe me – to feed on my story, to bring me what I needed to know. I should thank you, Commander; with your death, you'll make a better Panem."

"You set me up!" Trajan roared, struggling against Nero's grip. "You planned this the whole time! You _wanted _to launch this coup – to slaughter my men, to destroy the military and put those leeches you call Inquisitors and Peacekeepers in our place!"

"All according to plan," Rex smiled. "But you shouldn't worry. Together, we're crafting a better world – free from the emotional quakes shaking you now. It's a dawn of _progress_, Commander. To forget the chaos of the _spirit_ and to focus on pure, logical, results."

"Poetic, it seems," Octavian picked a piece of cheese out of his teeth, turning back towards the vineyards. "Finish him off, Rex. Find Nihlus; tell him to round up the victors in the Control Center."

"It's already been done," Rex smiled. He picked up Trajan's gun as Nero held tight to the military commander, smiling with a hint of sadistic glee. "It has been a pleasure working with you, Commander."

Trajan gritted his teeth. As Rex's finger moved towards the trigger, Trajan's thumb found a small button on the inside of his palm. If he had to die, he would make sure Octavian, Rex, Nero, and all these traitors wouldn't succeed without a fight.

He only hoped his signal would give Marius and the rest of the military enough time to retreat.

Rex's eyes burned hot as he pulled the trigger of the rifle. Trajan saw a blast of yellow fire explode at him before a pounding hammer hit his chest.

He saw inky darkness, then saw no more.


	31. Sunset On Peace

_**A/N: Like the last two, a notice: There'll be one more chapter after this one; when I post that (an epilogue, really, albeit a critically important one) I'll also at the same time post the first chapter for story #4, "Sea of Dreams," and provide a link at the end of the epilogue.**_

* * *

**The Capitol – The Nexus**

The red-flashing indicator on Marius Nerva's arm meant only one thing – Trajan had failed. They were coming for him next.

It was war.

"Valens!" Marius shouted at the nearest Legate he could see. "Pull back everyone inside the Nexus to the hangers. We're dispatching for District 11's bases."

The burly Legate regarded him oddly. "With what?"

"Every aircraft we have left," Marius instructed. "Everything we can free east of the Capitol, everything here."

"_What?"_

"Trajan is dead," Marius tapped his fingers across a haptic computer array. "The attack has failed. We can't withstand the full Capitol force if Octavian diverts legions in the districts to come for us. We have to pull back; fortify and strategize. Do it! Before we all die down here."

Valens nodded, his thick neck bobbing up and down as he processed the information. Every Centurion and their Legate officers had been briefed of the eventuality of failure – but few knew of the backup plan. Marius was now in control of the army. He had to see it escape safely.

His thin fingers whacked away at the computer control panel he operated, wiping every data file he could see. Marius activated the local defense grid, automating surface-to-air missiles and alerting cybersecurity systems. Trajan's death meant Rex and Nihlus were almost certainly dead as well by now; still, he couldn't be too careful with the computers. Octavian's forces could still hack in, and plenty of Peacekeepers strutted about on the Nexus's surface levels. For all he knew, they were already engaged with Centurions, fighting in a frantic battle for supremacy and survival.

Klaxons and yellow warning lights lit up the Hive, sending everyone scurrying for access to the underground hanger bays. Panem's military was a disciplined bunch, but even they knew when to abandon a sinking ship and regroup. Sticking around meant death.

Marius opened the great doors to the hangers, tracking the liftoff of one of his remaining hovercrafts. His men had acted fast – fixed-wing aircraft had begun warming up on their pads, hovercraft kicking in thrusters.

_Time to go_.

_Bam!_

Sparks flew over his head as Marius jumped to the side. Bullets ricocheted off metal surfaces, sending shrapnel flying about. He offered a look back over his shoulder as he took off for the exit hatches – already, two squads of Peacekeepers had forced their way onto the elevators and ridden down to the Hive. A rear guard of Centurions held them off down the expanse of large halls and rooms, bullets peppering every nook and cranny of the headquarters under siege.

"Everyone _go!_" Marius shouted to no one in particular. "_Fall back_ to the hangers!"

He hit several switches, activating internal drone security. Three robotic, steely arachnids, each nearly ten feet in width, crawled out of concealed panels in the wall and unfurled a number of ghastly weapon arms. Centurions raced by them as they took up positions along the hall leading into the Hive's conference room, anchoring to the floor and opening fire at the first line of Peacekeepers.

_Wapwapwap!_

A flurry of magnetically-slung darts hit the lead squad of the white-armored military police, shredding bloody holes in their armor as they went down. Marius reached his personal access port, opening the hatch to the chromed exit tube and looking back one more time at the base he'd called home. Peacekeepers stormed past the three defense drones in Pyrrhic waves, gunned down without remorse but plowing in through sheer force of numbers. Blood from both sides stained everything, coating the wood-paneled walls and lining the floor like a human oil slick.

The contorted bodies of the dead furnished the grim scene.

Marius jumped into his tube, putting his thoughts behind him as the steel cylinder enveloped his body. Down he fell – down, down, down, picking up speed as he slid like a bullet through the hatch. The tube opened up with a start under his feet, depositing Marius onto corrugated steel plate like a rude birth. He wiped off his hands on his dark gray uniform, mildly aware he'd been sweating through the forty-five-second escape.

Around him, his men dashed for remaining aircraft – fixed wing jets the norm among a few remaining hovercraft. Marius silently cursed the Capitol for having the technological edge in the coming air battles with the majority of hovercraft on their side. It would be a struggle to take them down.

He picked up his feet, lurching towards the nearest remaining hovercraft he could see – a scout model , originally used for keeping tabs on District 13 while camouflaged under an invisible cloak. He wouldn't need that here today, however – he'd only need as much engine power as the two-seat airship could give him.

"I'll be your pilot, sir," a short Centurion with beady brown eyes spoke up, opening the cockpit to the small, aerodynamic, pistachio-shaped craft. "I would ask you to handle our systems during the flight."

"Easy enough," Marius grunted, pulling his body up into the craft. He'd flown many times; done some reconnaissance on District 13 himself. This wasn't anything new.

_All for naught, apparently_, he thought to himself. _The President's forces are trying to kill you, and District 13's off the grid. Dang. Coulda used them now._

Marius strapped himself into the copilot seat as his pilot jumped in beside him, closing the clear cockpit hatch. The holographic panels before Marius came back easily to his well-experienced instincts; weapons systems to his right, with cannons on the top row and rockets on the bottom. His left had energy feeds, diverting power to whichever systems needed them the most.

He throttled down the cloaking camouflage all the way - no need to be invisible when the gameplan was to run as fast as possible to the Southeast.

"Starting ignition," Marius's pilot confirmed, kicking in the engines as a familiar rumble started under the cockpit. "We're good to go, sir."

"Then let's get out of here," Marius grunted.

The hovercraft fired up its thrusters, lifting off its launch pad and nosing towards the entrance. The great hanger days gaped out, letting in sunny daylight. Marius's pilot hit forward thrust, sending the hovercraft lunging forward like a predator. Marius felt himself pressed into his crash seat as the airship rocketed forward, out, and away from the hanger.

A bright explosion immediately greeted the two as the hovercraft cleared the base. Bits of a fighter in the sky poured down like fiery rain before them as Marius saw the culprit. Lurching over the mountains around the Nexus came a giant hovercraft – the pride and joy of the Capitol fleet, more of an aerial battleship than an assault craft. Named the _Secutor_, the giant craft dwarfed anything else in the sky – almost like a great, jet-fueled, armored blimp sporting dozens of weapon pods. The silver beast had just begun targeting the last of Marius's fleeing air force, launching hordes of rockets without discrimination.

"Taking evasive maneuvers!" the pilot yelled, dipping the scout craft out of the way of several missiles. Exhaust fumes ripped by the cockpit, blinding Marius's vision with yellow fire.

The _Secutor_ targeted its heavy guns at the hanger doors, giving Marius enough time to watch a final straggler make his way from the base before a rain of shells hit the Nexus. Whoever was in command of that thing now – it certainly wasn't his men, after all – wouldn't risk damaging the computer cores of the base itself. However, he'd certainly be fine trapping hanger survivors like victims of a cave-in, leaving them to suffocate or be picked off by advancing troops.

War left no room for half-measures.

"We're clear," Marius's pilot exhaled, pushing the small craft as fast as it would go.

The Nexus and the Capitol disappeared slowly behind Marius and his fleeing force, winding away like a bad dream.

The nightmare of civil war, however, had only fired its first shot.

* * *

**The Arena**

The elevator dropped Sam off on the ground once more, depositing her amid the columns of stone that pressed in from all sides. She felt sick to her stomach, realizing the only way the Hunger Games could end.

_One district…not three. One._

Lily, River, and Firth hadn't moved since she'd battled her demons atop the pyramid. Firth still looked lost, drained from his nasty wound and exhaustion. Lily hung on despite her terrible injury, curled about her stomach and holding back the blood with pressure. Her already-pale face had turned bleached white from Vespasian's attack, a victim of blood loss and physical agony. River sat alongside, her own face lacking color as her arm continued to bleed drip by drip onto the ground.

It was a miracle none of them were dead yet.

"I…I did it," Sam said, her voice flat and tired. "It's off."

Firth smiled weakly, unable to speak in his condition. River looked up at her, not knowing what to expect – Sam's psychosis had almost caused her to turn and kill her allies before she'd run off to the pyramid apex. River had no idea whether she'd turn again.

Sam had other ideas. She knew what she had to do.

_Maybe no Storm waiting for me, but I'm not going to live with these three haunting me, too._

Sam picked up River's knife that the girl had dropped, inspecting the sharp blade with worn-out eyes. It was plenty sharp enough to do the job – to finish what she'd started.

Lily was almost gone. River and Firth wouldn't have to die as long as Sam and Lily were dead first.

Sam looked up to the sky – the hurricane clearing away with Nihlus's "death." Low stratus clouds hung around as the wind and rain let up suddenly, leaving the rainforest a gray, murky swamp. The pyramid didn't look so glamorous under these bland skies as it had below the earlier sun. Now it was just stone and rock, a crumbling monument to a people long-since dead. It was no landmark; it was a tombstone.

Twenty-four tributes had fought to get to this point, but the twenty-fifth – Sam's past, taking on a life and will of its own – had died atop the pyramid's altar.

Sam kneeled to the ground, ignoring the mud and taking hold of one of Lily's small hands. She held tight to the girl for several seconds, squeezing her palm to let her know she was there.

"River," Sam said slowly, accepting her fate. "You go home, okay? You go take care of little Brooke; go live the life Gannet would want you to have. The one I want you to have."

"Sam," River had tears in her eyes as she spoke, her voice barely audible through pain and frayed nerves. She barely made out the rest: "Thank you…for everything. For being there for me."

"For my friend," Sam finished for her, wrapping River up in a quick hug. "Always my friend."

She turned towards Firth, who had managed to sit himself upright with the last of his strength: "Firth…you look after her, alright? You be strong for me."

"Guess I can't talk you out of this one," he whispered, the slightest hint of a smile playing across his mud-streaked face. "I know you've got your mind made up, Sam."

"Just one last thing," Sam answered quietly.

She knew what her last gift on earth would be. She leaned in to Firth, closing her eyes loosely and feeling the fireworks shooting off in her gut again. This time, she knew she wouldn't have to regret them. Sam touched her lips to Firth's, kissing him slowly – letting the last seconds of their time together mean something. She pulled away with a slow sense of finality, clearing her mind and her heart of whatever remorse remained.

She'd finished her fight.

"Make it count," Sam whispered to him.

She stood up, tightening her grip on River's knife and walking away. She couldn't look back now – not after the goodbyes, not after she'd let all her feelings go. This was it.

_Vespasian can't kill me,_ Sam thought. _Nihlus can't kill me. My own past can't kill me. Only I can do that – and now I have to_.

Neither regret nor insidious voices within her head reared up to rebut her. Every nerve within Sam's brain was in consensus for her last act.

She sat down on the first step of the pyramid's wall, out of sight of her friends so they wouldn't see her go. Sam flipped the blade over her hands, firmly clutching the grip with her fingers. She'd made it quick – right to the heart, leaving no chance of changing her mind.

Sam cast one last look over the green trees of the jungle, far from District 10's prairie. With all that had happened there, however – all the loss, all the pain, all the betrayal – she felt more at home here, with those who cared about her having said their goodbyes, than back on the plains.

_Goodbye, Jake_, Sam thought, feeling as if her brother back in the district would hear her last call. She knew he would understand. _Goodbye. Thanks for being the only family I ever knew. A girl couldn't ask for a better brother._

She pressed the tip of the knife against her chest, closing her eyes and breathing in fragrances of fresh rain-coated leaves and new saplings.

_Now or never, Sammy_.

_WHRRRRR!_

Sam opened her eyes with a shock. Bright, tracer-lit bullets flashed out of the cloud cover as two boxy, olive-painted jets dove low. Gunfire impacted a force field with bright blue sparks, breaking the invisibility cloak of the arena's hovercraft that had patrolled silently nearby. The gunship veered up to evade the two jets as one lobbed off a missile on a white plume of exhaust, catching the acorn-shaped hovercraft's underside and sending out a fiery blast.

Sam rushed away from the pyramid, scrambling towards Firth, River, and Lily as fast as she could go. Something was wrong – clearly the Hunger Games were _not_ still on.

The hovercraft had survived the missile strike, turning its under-slung 40mm cannons on the lead aircraft as it swung for another pass. The first few shots ripped through the jet's fuselage, bisecting the craft like some horrible dissection. The jet didn't explode; it merely tore apart like paper, littering wings, discarded engines, and the remains of a cockpit – with whatever poor soul had been inside – about the dark jungle.

The other jet forgot its attack pattern at once, evading another round of artillery fire from the hovercraft and accelerating to top speed. It pulled away in a hurry, juking right and rising into the clouds as its attacker spewed bullets at its trail.

"Firth! River!" Sam shrieked, still running. "Are you guys alright?"

She didn't have time to get an answer. A translucent blue beam caught her in midstride as the hovercraft locked on with a force field. She felt a flexible cable snatching her about the waist, tightening around her for a firm grip before yanking her off the ground. Sam was powerless in its grasp, unable to move as it drew her over the treetops and into the hovercraft's maw.

She had a fleeting glimpse of the rainforest stretching out below before a brilliant pain exploded across her head. Sam gasped, just registering the hit before she slipped into welcome unconsciousness.


	32. A Second Wind

_**A/N: Once again, thanks for sticking with me through the first half of the "From Dust" series! Episode 4, "Sea of Dreams," will continue Samantha Parker's journey as she delves into the depths of conflict and history, uncovering the final legacy of a long-dead people. Head to my profile page for the link to the next story, and as always, let me know if you have any questions/comments/suggestions!  
**_

* * *

The Capitol's largest morgue was silent in the evening as medical coroner Carbo Saxa wheeled in a corpse. The body hadn't been gone too long – maybe a few days, as he'd estimated. Of course, this was no _normal_ body.

The corpse of Trajan Arterius looked peaceful on the gurney as Carbo fired up the cremation furnace. No one wanted this body anyway; best to just dispose of it. The former commander's tattoos still looked alive and vivid to the naked eye, etched upon cold skin like writings from the Book of the Dead. The short but stocky military man didn't even seem perturbed by the clean hole in his chest – a wound that seemed odd to Carbo. It was as if the bullet had entered _too_ perfectly; like someone had almost…_fixed_ it since the impact and death.

Of course, Carbo had checked for the usual synthetic body augmentations. Many people in the Capitol had "upgrades" to stave off disease, heart attacks, cancer, and all sorts of other ailments. Nothing out of the ordinary checked out on Trajan's body, however. To all the senses, he was merely a man – a dead man.

Carbo whistled to himself as he opened the furnace door, checking to make sure the blackened gas emitters were working. He scratched his unshaven face, plucking a long, brown hair out of his chin; it had been a long week. Although the fighting up at the surface hadn't shaken the foundations here underground in the Sanitarium – the largest hospital in the Capitol, an absolutely massive place buried underground and capable of housing tens of thousands of patients – he'd still heard plenty about the attempted coup. Burning Trajan's body was all the dead man deserved.

Dead men told no tales, however – and whatever Trajan had done, whatever the coup Octavian and Rex had gone on at length about over public airwaves had entailed, this corpse would never speak of the details.

Carbo's flabby muscles strained as he hefted Trajan's body up, puffing in exhaustion and wedging the corpse into the furnace little by little. He hadn't been trained as a bodybuilder, no doubt. It took him nearly a minute to cram the corpse into the small alcove, using his feet and body to shove the leftovers of a man in with great exertion. Carbo huffed and closed the furnace door with a slam, the metal squeaking as it ground against rusted steel hinges.

The coroner didn't notice the twitch of movement within.

He paced back over to the furnace's ignition controls, preparing to flip the switch without a second thought. Carbo's mind went back to his work: He'd have to dispose of a number of bodies tonight with the dead piling on down. Tomorrow would be a grind; he'd get no sleep.

Carbo flipped the switch, hearing the reassuring sound of flames roaring inside the furnace. He turned his back on the operation, letting the fire do its work as he attended to forms on his computer console. Always something new…

With a start, something grabbed the back of Carbo's neck, hefting the diminutive man up with a vise-like grip. The coroner gasped, clawing at his neck as he was carried over to the furnace.

"Going to stick me in there?" a growling voice snarled at him. "Going to let me burn? Let's see how you like it."

Carbo saw a heavily-tattooed arm reach out in front of his eyes, snatching open the furnace door and letting roaring flames rush out. He shrieked in terror as a wave of heat blew over him, singing his eyebrows.

"Nothing to fear," the voice grunted. "After all, you should be used to this part."

Carbo screamed as he was thrown face-first into the fire, the hot orange flames wrapping about his body in an embrace of incendiary agony. He managed one last look out of the furnace as the door closed behind him, catching the glimpse of a column of tattooed black delta arrows arranged down a well-muscled neck.

He saw only fire forevermore.


End file.
